Paperwork
I’ve had problems with authority since the foot ulcer incident, but it was good of Graeme to take me on and I generally do what he tells me. I extract the documents from his outstretched hand.
“I’ll take care of this paperwork.”
Stephanie Carter and her fiancé stand behind him. Stephanie’s glassy forehead, manicured nails and Duchess of Cambridge blow wave hint at a hefty disposable income, but I know she’s two million in the hole. I couldn’t believe it when I first saw her name in our files. Now I know a lot about Stephanie Carter.
I know her stay-at-home husband ran away with his mindfulness coach. I know he got the house and half the money. I know about the leaky home litigation. I know her fiancé’s a rich-lister, nearly retired. I can tell from looking that he’s another Type 2 diabetic. I know she hopes he doesn’t last long.
She doesn’t seem to remember me at all. Well, it has been two years. And she wouldn’t expect to see me at Hunton & Lord. I had to quit being a kindy teacher after the operation. Funny to think that it all came down to a paperwork issue. I thought I was on the waiting list for a follow-up appointment all those months, but my specialist had just forgotten to file the forms.
“I’ll pop the copies in the post,” I say.
Graeme nods. The photocopier is just a few metres away, but he knows I don’t like walking in front of clients. He guides them outside.
“Nice to see you Mr Feldner, Dr Carter.”
He retreats to his office and clicks the door shut. I pick up the wills, heave myself up and lurch across the room on my prosthetic leg. I turn on the shredder.
This story was first published on the Noted website via North and South magazine, February 2018.
“I’ll take care of this paperwork.”
Stephanie Carter and her fiancé stand behind him. Stephanie’s glassy forehead, manicured nails and Duchess of Cambridge blow wave hint at a hefty disposable income, but I know she’s two million in the hole. I couldn’t believe it when I first saw her name in our files. Now I know a lot about Stephanie Carter.
I know her stay-at-home husband ran away with his mindfulness coach. I know he got the house and half the money. I know about the leaky home litigation. I know her fiancé’s a rich-lister, nearly retired. I can tell from looking that he’s another Type 2 diabetic. I know she hopes he doesn’t last long.
She doesn’t seem to remember me at all. Well, it has been two years. And she wouldn’t expect to see me at Hunton & Lord. I had to quit being a kindy teacher after the operation. Funny to think that it all came down to a paperwork issue. I thought I was on the waiting list for a follow-up appointment all those months, but my specialist had just forgotten to file the forms.
“I’ll pop the copies in the post,” I say.
Graeme nods. The photocopier is just a few metres away, but he knows I don’t like walking in front of clients. He guides them outside.
“Nice to see you Mr Feldner, Dr Carter.”
He retreats to his office and clicks the door shut. I pick up the wills, heave myself up and lurch across the room on my prosthetic leg. I turn on the shredder.
This story was first published on the Noted website via North and South magazine, February 2018.
