The view from the queue

Abstract

”Where's Danny?” The words were out before I was conscious of what prompted them. My wife and older son were waiting for me as I emerged from the customs hall at Heathrow airport, but my accident prone younger son was prominently absent. I had been lecturing at a medical school in the Middle East for a week and as I waited in the queues at Heathrow anxiety about my family, and Danny in particular, had begun nagging at the back of my mind. A month later I took Danny for his follow up appointment at the fracture clinic of our local hospital. The fracture of his clavicle, caused during a wicked stunt involving a mountain bike and a large log, was healing without problems and there was no reason to expect any hitches at the clinic. We live within half a mile of the hospital and arrived early. The receptionist took Danny's appointment card in a rather absentminded way and asked us to sit down. At that moment, the notes trolley entered the clinic and Danny's appointment card—in fact, our entire existence was forgotten. I was not aware that we had been overlooked. I was …