I couldn’t resist putting in this image of Edvard Munch’s iconic painting, which pretty well sums up the way I felt earlier in the day when I was waiting at the doctors surgery.

As per usual I found a chair as remote from the waiting throng as possible (well you don’t want to pick up any germs – do you?). My chosen seat was in a niche at the top of the stairs leading down to the lower section, but still on the middle level and separated from the main waiting room by a wall above the stairwell; therefore I was protected not only from the germs, but also from the sight of most of the other patients. My spot afforded me a view of just two patients sat opposite on the far wall and I could see the comings and goings through the doorway to the doctors’ rooms. Before sitting down I picked up a bowel cancer screening leaflet.

Some minutes later I was thinking that perhaps I should ring and ask for a testing kit when I heard a nasty cough emitted by an elderly man behind the wall. After flinching somewhat at the sound of loose phlegm I recovered my composure and almost smiled to myself – how sensible I had been in choosing such a good spot; okay, the sound travelled rather too well through the waiting room wall but I was at least safe from those horrid germs. Bored with all the health warning brochures I went over and chose reading matter from a pile of magazines beside the bald young man directly opposite me (he didn’t look too ill).

Soon it was hard to concentrate on the “Woman” magazine, not only because I didn’t have my reading glasses with me and I had to squint, but mainly due to a loud and high-pitched scream behind the wall. My hands went instinctively to my ears to protect my eardrums from the piercing noise. The screaming persisted and no chiding or soothing sounds came from behind the wall. I surveyed the faces of the two men on the bench seats opposite me. Each kept his head down, perhaps in the hope that the noise would cease if they paid no heed. The older man (with plenty of hair) glanced momentarily my way and stifled a chuckle. I was still holding my ears like the subject in the painting of “The Scream”.

With my hands planted firmly beside my face I began to read the article on my lap. I was attracted by the large print in the title – “WHAT IS MISOPHONIA?” I laughed aloud (no-one could hear over the young child’s piercing screams anyway). The first sentence read:

“Misophonia is an intolerance of sound and sufferers have specific symptoms and triggers that can set them off.”

The stolen page…with a couple of extra photographs.