I don’t know where he’d got the wheelchair from; it certainly wasn’t NHS issue. It looked like a relic of the First World War. And the man pushing it might have served in that same war.

The canvas and wood contraption creaked its way towards me, tacking from side to side like a yacht in a strong headwind, as one or other of the iron-spoke wheels gave out a protesting squeal.

When it reached the desk its occupant leaped nimbly out. ‘Morning – I’m George Turner. Am I too early?’

I was too stunned to tell him he was half an hour late for his ‘urgent’ appointment. I stared at the old gent who was hanging on to the handles of the wheelchair and seemed to be having trouble breathing. He was a funny colour and looked seconds away from cardiac arrest. ‘Are you alright?’ I enquired, anxiously.
George answered for him. ‘Henry? He’s right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Never had a day’s illness in his life. That right Henry?’
Henry clearly had difficulty speaking.

‘Well, take a seat then’ I gave what I hoped was a caring, yet professional smile.
Henry sat down in the wheelchair.
‘No, no – you can’t sit there. I meant on the bench’. I gestured vaguely.
The old man beamed at me. He didn't seem to understand. A small queue was beginning to form, and I started to panic.

Marjorie came to my rescue. ‘That’s ok. I’ll put him in a corner where no one will fall over him’. And then, to George, ‘What’s with the wheelchair, George?’
‘My walking stick’s gone in for a service’ he replied.
Marjorie pulled a face.
‘Actually, I am suffering from planchafistitis he continued.
I looked blank,
‘Policeman’s foot’ said Marjorie. ‘Well, at least that’s a new one for you, George.’ And, without waiting for a reply, she hauled the wheelchair and its octogenarian occupant across the room to a place of safety, and I was now able to concentrate on the planchafistitis sufferer.

My first impression was of someone recently returned from a world cruise: tanned and fit. I had to admit that, although quite a bit older than me, he was attractive in a raffish sort of way. (In fact I was to tell him later – much later – that, with his Zapata moustache he reminded me of a successful Greek gun-runner. And he – much later still - was to remind me that this was the only time I had referred to him as ‘successful’).

But I am getting ahead of myself. On that Monday morning my only concern was to get this eccentric off my hands. ‘Take a seat please, Mr Turner, and wait for Doctor Shiva to buzz.’
‘Call me George,’ he said, ‘everybody does’. And he leered at me, before going to sit next to a young single mum, and striking up a conversation with her toddler before his bum had hit the seat.