Stamattina sono andato alla mutua a farmi fare delle radiografie al naso, forse ho i seni paranasali storti o qualcosa del general. Before you can enter nell'ambulatorio quarter of an hour I waited in the waiting room. Above the door there was a siren printed on the fan of black radiation, I believe would serve to warn when the x-rays are in place to keep off anyone, just do not ever lit. When it came my turn the doctor made me go into a darkened room, with a floor stained but clean. In the middle was a machine where he remembered that sitting in the symbol of the old Bill Bixby TV series Hulk, and an anthropologist of the future daterebbe the late sixties, early seventies of the twentieth century. At least judging by the cubic buttons that cover - that kind of buttons that light up when cubic crush them - and a sort of measurement tool that looks like the speedometer of an old convertible. Here and there, it seems so random, we are sticking to the least worse classic triangular yellow stickers with the black center of the fan, the kind that sell for 50 pence a flea market in Camden Town. A Venetian retracted and covered with dust and left in a corner, and two or three monitors that I see around were already old at the time of the Commodore Vic-20. In general there is an atmosphere like 2001 space odyssey-meets- Plan 9 from outer space. The doctor rotates the daguerreotype X-ray up to the vertical position and asked me to place the face on the glass. I hesitate because mi sembra di vedere macchie di grasso umano, impronte digitali ecc. e visto che devo praticamente baciarlo le chiedo se il ripiano è pulito. Lei col solito broncio - tiene per tutto il tempo un broncio simile a quello che tenevo per strada andando a scuola, quando sapevo che quel giorno mi avrebbero interrogato in Fisica e io non toccavo il libro da due mesi - lei col solito broncio mi dice che hanno pulito la lastra di vetro con l'alcol. Mi viene da chiederle quando, visto che non sento il minimo odore di alcol, ma decido di darci un taglio, ripiego le labbra verso l'interno e poggio la faccia sulla lastra di vetro. La dottoressa mi dice di stare fermo, poi con un joistick regola l'altezza dell'obiettivo in modo che il fascio di particelle colpisca il punto giusto of my skull. But there's no way. You're too high, the doctor tells me (obvious, I think. A meter and eighty-five at the end of the sixties had to be diagnosed as gigantism.) And then bent a little 'knees, that's it, and stand still until I will not tell you. The location is the most uncomfortable that a person can take, and the most laborious to maintain. After a couple of seconds my legs begin to tremble, and meanwhile continue to keep his face squashed against the glass. Anyone who saw a still image of my time would conclude without a shadow of a doubt that as I approached the machine while I stumbled andandomi to crash face against the glass shelf. Waiting to hear say that we're done I wonder if it is all an invention of Dr. not to get bored and have fun at the expense of patients. I imagine tonight, the fourth glass of prosecco, to confess that his work is such an annoyance that should not go crazy every now and then to invent something new. This morning for example there was one, with the excuse that it was too high so I did make, look, she will assume the position, and all down to laugh like crazy. We finished, I said at the time, and finally I could straighten. Five minutes later he gave me the developed plates and everything. I greeted her and asked me for the first time a smile. There on the ground, on the corner, a wad of dust rolling on the linoleum as bushes in western movies of yesteryear.
