“Your name, please,” the young lady at the desk requested politely, simultaneously typing and chewing gum curiously at me.
“Alphonsie Dubois.” I said.
“How do you spell that?”
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alphonsie Dubois, and so that we don’t have any infuriating mispronounciations, I'd like to point out that it sounds like this:
Al – foh – si
Du – bwah
As I was spelling my name for the receptionist, I noticed a small pink placard placed on the end of her desk, next to her computer monitor. It read:
Do something every day that scares you.
Ok, I thought as I took a deep breath. Thank you for the encouragement, I thought, feeling grateful for that little piece of advice next to the coffee cup. For a little moment I felt just like I had the world on my side.
“Please take a seat.” She told me.
I thanked her, and went and sat down on one of the suspiciously clean sofas in the waiting room. Picking up one of the less inflammatory-looking magazines in the pile next to the couch, I scanned quickly through the pages upon pages of miracle diets and “you won’t believe it’s true!!!” stories for an apricot pie recipe, while a business suit I hadn’t even noticed had come in was determinedly ignoring me.
I peered at the newspapers nestled superiorly above the magazines. I knew what they contained and it made my blood boil. I rubbed my reddening face, trying not to think about them. They’d be dealt with shortly.
There’s an uneasy relationship between me and the media. We’re not exactly enemies; we're just sort of those very distant acquaintances who awkwardly smile at each other, shuffling away before the surfacing thoughts emerge and things get weird. We’re meant to be honest, but we just don’t have enough trust. We’ve got too much history, the media and I, so now every time we encounter each other, you can see what I’m thinking: so …what’re you trying to shove down my throat this time? Still trying to convince me of someone’s opinion you’re paid to represent? Well, at least try and make it interesting. Go on. I've got places to go.
“Ms Du-buoys?” called one of the receptionists. I quickly scuttled to the desk.
“Yes?” I asked, my heartbeat speeding up a little. I tried my hardest not to look too nervous.
She was one-third on the phone, one-third talking to me, and one-third staring into the waiting room. I looked around and saw the suit-wearer look up for a moment. I flashed him my biggest smile and then turned back around, satisfied. I make it a prerogative to annoy someone who wouldn't care if I exist or not.
“Ms Du-buoys?” Ms Phone of the Journalism Bureau of Upper Kingsford asked me.
“The same.” I said, my confidence flaking.
“We’re sorry. Dr Hainsfield can’t see you right now.”
“Oh.”
I turned around. No “come back at another time”. No “I’ll pass on a message”.
In my imagination, I reached the door, spun back around on my heel, and shouted “My father’s not a murderer! You can keep your unpropogated, rumour-mongering stories out of my life!”, before promptly putting my foot in the tacky potted plant and tearing that morning’s paper in two with my teeth.
