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The office of the psychotherapist I visited this morning is in one of those medical/service complexes, quite near my house. As an odd bit of coincidence, it’s next door to the pediatric group I went to as a child. The pediatricians have moved since I was their patient, but it’s the same group.

This caused a combination flashback/funny as I walked along the line of doors to mine this morning. As when I was a kid, there was a “WELL PATIENTS” door and a “SICK PATIENTS” door, to avoid mixing up kids who were infected and otherwise. They’ve since added a third door, marked “RASH PATIENTS”.

I vividly remember the different colored doors, and the odd feeling as a child when I had to wait in the “sick” waiting room. I guess now they’ve also made a category for those children who are full of spitfire and thunder, ready to buckle their swashes and take on the whole fookin’ British Navy me hearties, yes, for the RASH PATIENTS who dare to.. ?

I minced delicately down to the next office, where unhappy adults consider their situations for an hourly fee.