Oh Jesus. An institution.
All I saw at the end of our 240 mile journey to the other end of the country, was a long anonymous grey block of concrete, low level buildings. The Priory, it certainly wasn't.
“This is not going to work,” I thought, as we waited in the
reception area, too tired to speak.
We listened mutely as a departing member of staff chatted away in pidgin English at a receptionist framed behind a glass panel.
We could have been extra-terrestrials for all the notice that was being taken.
A man in white overalls finally came to meet us, with a beaming
smile. Even in my insanity, it struck me as incongruous in the extreme.
Not appropriate, mate. Nothing to grin about.
Not appropriate, mate. Nothing to grin about.
