A survey found that most executives, if asked what their weak points are, would answer ‘I’m not very patient.’ Sitting in my doctor’s waiting room, I suddenly remember that survey. At least I’m not alone. There are two other patients waiting with me, and we are all in collective waiting mode. Each one of us is reading one of the range of long-outdated magazines arranged in neat piles according to title on a table. Directly in front of me, I have three magazines to choose from: a general interest publication with a picture of President Bush preparing to wage war on Iraq, Animal World, with a miniature pony in full gallop on the cover, and Gala, which announces the thrilling news that Boris Becker and his wife have split up. In the corner, there are a few sad-looking toys. The walls are decorated with landscape prints: Oak Tree in the Mist, Waterfall with Rainbow, Snow-Capped Mountain Peak and... a representation of Christ complete with a dried palm leaf. Behind me, there is a series of diplomas all attesting to the great professional expertise of my GP. The only problem is, I can’t understand half the medical terms on them.

What exactly is going wrong here, I wonder? Why doesn’t my doctor see that here is an opportunity to change a predictably boring and depressing situation and make it a different and more interesting experience? His customers (I deliberately refrain from calling them patients) are penned up in a room and don’t know how to occupy themselves. No one speaks, and the mood is subdued. We’re like sinners waiting for the Last Judgement. Surely even a little music would help to lighten the atmosphere. A little background noise would break the silence and encourage people to chat.

The door opens and the receptionist inquires: ‘Mrs Ettlin?’ The elderly lady next to me reaches for her crutches, heaves herself to her feet, breathing heavily, and walks to the door, while the receptionist gives us a stiff little smile as if to say, ‘This is going to take just a little bit longer.’

I look at my watch and wonder what the difference between a moment and an eternity is. ‘Waiting room.’ I try to find other, more fitting names for it. For example, ‘Room for eternity’ or, ‘The most boring room in the world’ or even, ‘No-talking room’!

A mother comes in with her roughly 3-year-old son, sits down and begins to answer his constant barrage of questions in a low whisper. ‘Mummy, why aren’t the man and the lady talking?’ ‘Because you don’t talk in a waiting room,’ his mother whispers back. I can’t hold my tongue any longer: ‘It’s called a waiting room and not a silent room. And it’s not called a whispering room, either, so why are we whispering?’ The woman looks surprised at my rhetorical attack. She’s obviously embarrassed and afraid that I am undermining her authority. ‘That’s just the way it is. A waiting room isn’t a discotheque,’ she snaps. And just when it looks like the monotony is going to be broken by a little lively conversation, the door opens again and the receptionist appears: ‘Mr Kinderman, please!’ I feel like answering: ‘Sorry! I haven’t got time just now,’ but think better of it. They probably already think I’m a weirdo. I take my leave of the other customers with the words, ‘Enjoy your wait.’ But one look at the grave, silent faces of my companions-in-waiting tells me that they can’t see the funny side of this.

‘Well, how are you feeling today?’ my doctor greets me with his usual words. ‘Impatient,’ I reply.

Amazingly good!

At a doctor’s surgery in Florida, they have found a way to make waiting a little more exciting. Any patient who has to wait longer than 15 minutes wins a lottery ticket worth $5 and with which they have the chance to win a million dollars. This creates a lighter mood in the waiting room and gives rise to lively conversation. It is also an incentive to the surgery to work as efficiently as possible, as otherwise it will cost them too much.