Change of Scene

 

“What you need is a change of scene,” the doctor pronounced, with the authority that 40 years in the business had conferred.  I wondered whether any of his confidently-asserted diagnoses had ever been questioned because there was never any shred of doubt in his voice, no sense that his advice might be less than satisfactory.  But, who was I to suggest that the twelve-minute consultation he was allowed under Medicare was hardly long enough to get to the bottom of the lethargy and lassitude I had been feeling for the past few months?

 

This was not the first time I had consulted this particular doctor for this particular disorder.  He had one time confidently prescribed anti-depressants but I might as well have been taking lollies for all the good they did.  “We’ll try something stronger,” he said and I spent the next few weeks in a semi-comatose state.

 

“Hmm!” he murmured. “Have you tried exercise?  A brisk walk twice a day often works in this sort of situation.”  I tried, faithfully, for a couple of days but then the winter rains set in and the streets were too flooded and slippery for me to walk safely.  “Join a gymnasium,”  he advised, breezily and I duly fronted up to my local gym and joined the “Middle Years Marchers” group.  Who comes up with these ideas?  The group was almost exclusively female, silver-haired and desperate for companionship.  As a new member, I became ‘flavour of the month’ and, sadly, was not able to cope with the unwonted attention.

 

Finally, my long-suffering doctor suggested talking to his brother-in-law who was a psychologist but the waiting list for a consultation stretched far into the future.  “In the meantime, keep doing what you’re doing,” was the advice.  What I was doing was staying in bed until mid-morning, watching TV all afternoon, drinking too much, and falling into bed after midnight.

 

A change of scene?  Maybe a holiday would help.  Now that the COVID restrictions were being lifted, I had a few options to work with.  New Zealand might be a possibility but it’s a bit staid and I craved something a little more exciting.  Bali?  No, I wouldn’t feel safe there.  Queensland’s always good.  At least the sun is likely to be shining and the Premier, Anastasia, is talking it up.

 

I can fly to Brisbane direct from here, check into a reasonable hotel, spend some time on the Gold Coast and investigate what Joh Bjelke-Petersen used to call the flesh-pots.  I can’t wait; thinking about this holiday is the best I’ve felt for ages.  Maybe the doctor is right, after all.

 

There was no problem getting a seat on the plane and I had my choice of luxury hotels to choose from.  The direction to wear a mask was a bit difficult but having the bottom half of my face covered took years off my age and that could only be a good thing.  I was starting to become more than a little excited by my projected holiday.

 

I had a good flight, the crew were attentive and didn’t object to the few beers I enjoyed.  As the plane came into land, I felt just a little under the weather but I put that down to Altitude Sickness.  I had been reading about Edmund Hillary on Mt Everest and he had suffered from Altitude Sickness and I had been a lot higher than him.  That little stumble on the steps down from the plane meant nothing.

 

I had another beer, and a little something stronger, while I was waiting for my luggage to come around the carousel and stood patiently outside for a taxi.  I couldn’t wait to get to my luxury hotel and start to enjoy my change of scene.

 

The façade of the hotel was Queensland glitzy.  I had stayed in good hotels in other cities in the world but Brisbane hotels had a touch of Las Vegas about them that I hadn’t experienced elsewhere (except in Las Vegas, of course.) I stifled a little giggle.  It wouldn’t do to let people think that I was a little drunk.  And maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have had a few beers on top of my anti-depressants.

 

The young woman behind the reception desk said, “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t process your booking at the moment.  If you would take a seat, I’ll speak to my manager and he will be with you shortly.”

 

I couldn’t believe it, but sat down to hear the reason why I couldn’t book in.  An officious-looking middle-aged man came over to me and told me that the hotel’s policy was that they would not register any customers who were clearly intoxicated.

 

“Intoxicated?”  I bellowed.  Perhaps I should have kept my voice down because the next thing I know a couple of policemen had taken me by the arms and were hustling me out the door and into a police wagon.  So, now I am sitting on this hard bench in a Brisbane Police Station waiting to hear whether I will be charged with Disturbing the Peace.  And, I’m sure this is not the change of scene my precious doctor was talking about.