My winter trip to the doctor

So lately some of my toes have been sore; they were red and swollen, and I had no idea why. I did some internet searching, and decided that I probably had something serious and impressive sounding, like cellulitis, or gout, and thus needed some heavy narcotics to combat it. But given that I'm not a doctor, or even a fake internet doctor, I thought it best to get a second opinion.

The waiting room of the Health Centre is a strange place. All the medical posters vie for your attention, trying to convince you that theirs is the disease you have.
"Do you cough? You could have swine flu. Best stay at home."
"Do you cough? You could have lung cancer. Best go to the hospital."
"Do you cough? You could already be dead. Best stay away from our brains."

Then as I was sitting waiting, a thought hit me: When I get to the doctor's door, am I meant to knock, or do I go straight on in? I seem to remember knocking before, in the past sometime, but this is the age of computers, there's an LED screen in the waiting room to announce people's names, will knocking seem hideously antiquated and quaint? I've never been to this doctor before, I don't want him to be unnecessarily formal with me, what if it is something really serious I have, I'd want him to be straight with me, not couched in some outdated modalities of the past. I'll not knock.

On the other hand, what if I don't knock, and accidentally enter the wrong room? Does that get put on my medical record? "Careless voyeur, double glove at all times"? Or even worse, what if the doctor was taking this opportunity between patients to engage with a secret prescription drug habit. I'm fine with them doing it, I just don't want to know. Ruins confidence. Plus surely me witnessing such a thing would compromise any diagnosis he would give me, as I wouldn't be sure whether he was giving me an accurate portrayal of my health to keep me on his side, or whether he was using his medical knowledge for evil, to kill me in an untraceable and seemingly innocuous way so I wouldn't talk. Best to knock I think.

I see my name on the LED screen: "Aaron Marshall, Room 6". At last. As I walk across the waiting room I realise I'm repeating "Aaron Marshall, Room 6" over and over in my head. As if I'd get to room 6, forget who I am, and have to go home and start again. I suppose repeating "room" is redundant as well, given that all the doctors here operate out of rooms, but just repeating "6, 6, 6" feels a little too satanic for a place of health, so I go back to "Aaron Marshall, Room 6".

As I pass the other doctors' offices, I notice some have their doors slightly open. Ahah! This must be how it's done, the welcoming, slightly ajar door, signifying friendliness and availability, but with none of the lack of privacy from a completely open door. I reach my doctor's door. It is closed. Crap.

I knock on the door. As I knock, I realise I really should have done the knock and open: all the politeness of a knock, with all the speed of an open. Just knock, then open. Instead I knock, then stand there, waiting. I hear something from inside, but I can't make out the words. I should probably go in. But what if he said "no, don't come in?" Then entering would be extremely rude. So I just stand there. A few seconds later I hear a much louder "Come in!". This is not the sparkling first impression I was hoping for.

So I tell him about my toes, and he has a bit of a look. I neglect to tell him any of my "diagnoses", as I've tried leading with those in the past, and that tends to make the doctor a little angsty. It's like trying to help someone assemble an IKEA bookcase, but you can only help by shouting things. Things like "I think it involves nails somehow!". "Have you thought about assembling it in some manner?" "I googled it, and found pictures of several other bookcases, if that helps." Okay so maybe it's not much like that.

After a few more questions from the doctor, I get diagnosed with cold feet. Chilblains. Caused entirely by my poor choices in thermal retention. He looks at my shoes and socks disparagingly. The treatment: thicker socks, and big boots. He repeats this several times. I am not to be trusted, it seems, with remembering this complicated medical procedure of keeping feet warm. Which is not a poor assumption to make, given that I don't quite remember letting my feet get so cold in the first place. Nor did this come up in any of my numerous Google searches involving toes. It's probably best I'm not a fake internet doctor really. I now look forward to Christmas, where this year, ironically, given their poor reputation as festive gifts, thick woolly socks are exactly the present I want.