The Blood Lab at Princess Margaret Hospital is a busy place. Hundreds of people occupy the chairs lining the waiting room. Others stand, or overflow into the hallway.
For all its activity, everything is well-organized. You drop your blue hospital card in the box, and when they call your name, you go to the window, where they hand back your card, along with your doctor's requisition, and a tear-off number. You then sit down (if you have a chair) and watch the big red display as it crawls up towards your number.
But now it's 4 o'clock. The room is deserted. Our hero (me), being a true Canadian, walks up to the window and drops his card in the box. After a few minutes, a lab tech appears, examines my requisition, tears off a number, and hands it all back to me. Number 57. Whatever, we're the only two people here.
He then takes two steps to his right, and appears in the doorway under the "Now Serving" display. He reads the display, and calls out, "Number 57."
I look at him quizzically, but he is oblivious. This is what he does, every day, day after day. No variation. Any change in the routine would probably be traumatic.
Well, what can I do but say, "Here", and follow him into the deserted lab?
And all I can think is, "You know you've been working at your boring, repetitive job too long when . . ."
