"We'll need to do a urine test," The Indian lady hands me a glass bottle wrapped in a makeshift paper cup. Uncertainly, I take the bottle into my hands - judging from the glue residue still stuck on the glass, it's obvious this bottle used to carry a much more valued liquid (Brands Chicken Essence, anyone?)
"Go to the end of this alley, and use this key to open the toilet door." I stare at the key on the counter, tangled in dirty yellow mobile strap. Obediently, I grab the keys and head out to the alley, trying not to think of the many places the questionable strap has come into contact.
Like this depressing toilet, for example. The floor is damp, slippery with murky water. The fluorescent lights blinking inconsistently only highlight the dismal situation. Sighing in resignation, I poke at the nearest toilet door with one finger, careful to balance the Brands bottle in one hand and my white Topshop bag on the other.
Fifteen minutes and a minor accident involving a wet tissue later, I slip the half-filled bottle back into the paper cup and head back to the clinic, mentally crying over the little smudge at the corner of my white bag from pushing open the filthy toilet door.
The Indian lady takes my urine bottle without saying a word, her face as stony as ever. "Sit down," she barks, and I do, until she opens the door with the sign "Consultation Room" and orders me to get in, which I do as well.
"Take off all your clothes. Lie down here, and place these on your body," She instructs blandly, as if she was telling me how to fix my Astro settings. Wordlessly, I take the two pieces of folded cloths from her and wait for her to leave the room before stripping.
"Are you ready?" A much kinder voice comes from the closed door. "Yup," I say while making sure the two measly cloths covered me properly. Not that it matters, because the doctor, a smiley Chinese auntie with meticulously-permed hair and matching accessories, reaches beneath the cloths to caress various parts of my body almost as soon as she introduced herself. I try not to squirm as she pokes at the soles of my feet, but the serious way she said "I'm going to touch your breasts now", as if she was announcing my SPM results, makes me burst into giggles, which I try to cover up with feeble coughs.
"We'll need you to go take an X-Ray later. The centre is just down the road, within walking distance," she informs as she leaves me alone to dress up.
Walking distance turns out to be 25 minutes and four blisters in my dainty Marks & Spencer ballet flats under the drizzling rain to find the correct building, and another 10 minutes to navigate inside the concrete maze.
The X-Ray takes approximately five minutes, the results another three minutes. I barely had time to tape up my blisters with bandaids - two of them have burst, leaving my ankles feeling raw and throbbing painfully.
But I need to get this done, so I grit my teeth and try to tip toe my way out (to avoid rubbing my ankles on the shoes) without looking like a guilty pickpocket.
Limping my way to the entrance, I can hear the drizzle acting up into a proper rain, and my heart sinks. Rain means puddles of water, which will ruin the pretty baubles on my shoes AND make my blisters worse. I still need to walk back to the clinic, pass them the X-Ray results and get the doc's stamp of approval before walking back to the office I'm expecting to get an offer letter from. After receiving my medical report.
Keep your eyes on the prize, I try to pump myself up. At least you'll have a job after this.
