Dr Foggatty

The brass plate on the door says ‘Dr Frederick Foggatty’, but the man furiously pedalling the exercise bicycle does not look at all like a doctor: He is wearing a mauve sweater with leather patches on the elbows, lime green corduroy trousers, sandals and red socks; there is a small hole in one of the socks. His beard and hair join in one wild, rusty tangle.
He climbs down off the bicycle and, dismissing the male charge nurse, walks over to a desk, so large you could land a helicopter on it; that is, if you could find a place between the high-rise stacks of beige folders that litter its leather landscape. There is one folder all on its own; neatly squared off in the centre of the big pink blotter; I guess that is me – waiting to be dealt with.
Motioning me to sit down, this large, untidy man moves behind the desk and lowers himself into his chair. He stares hard at me. I say ‘at me’; actually he seems to be looking over my left shoulder and, when he speaks, he seems to be addressing his remarks to someone standing just behind me. I glance round, but there is no one there. I think he has a slight squint.
He finally speaks, ‘Now then, how long has this hand-washing business been going on, Brian?
‘I’m sorry’, I reply, bewildered.
‘No need to be sorry, Brian. We all have our little foibles. Now I’m here to help you, so don’t be afraid’.
‘No – I mean, I’m not Brian – my name is George: George Turner.’
The doctor glares at the folder in front of him. Then, shuffling through the nearest deck of similar folders on his desk, he extracts the correct case-notes and begins to read. As he reads, he breaks off from time to time to scratch his head vigorously, then examine his fingernails, as if looking for something.
Whilst he is reading, I look around the room. There is a framed school photograph, about a yard long: rows of identical small boys, sitting cross-legged, and behind them taller boys, and behind them even taller boys. The back row look as if they must have been on stilts when the photo was taken. To the right of the photo hangs a large card with printing on it. It slopes at an angle, as if someone has knocked it whilst dusting. Tilting my head, I read: Anyone who goes to see a psychiatrist needs his head examining.
He finishes reading, and begins to ask questions. I am on my guard of course, but his gentle, almost soothing voice, seems to draw me; and before I realise it, all sorts of stuff is pouring out.
All too soon (now why do I think that) the interview is over. He walks back to the ward with me, talking all the time about an old motor-bike he is restoring. Patients we pass, on the way, call out ‘How do, Freddie’. And he replies ‘How do Tom’ or ‘How do Alice’, whatever their name is. Not exactly the usual sort of doctor/patient exchange.
Still, I look forward to my next meeting with him.