There is a robot at the doctors’ surgery. It’s new. You walk into the doctors’ with one ailment, walk up to the receptionist, she scowls at you, carries on eating her sandwich and jabs towards the automatic booking in system with touch screen to her right. You stare at the screen like an idiot for 10 seconds trying to figure it out, follow OTT complex instructions and then tap at the screen. Until it freezes. Then you have to go back to the receptionist, with a whole new disease you just caught off the communal computer bug orgy, who greets you with an eye roll and a sarcastic smile.
I wrote a poem about the touch screen.
This little piggy caught conjunctivitis.
This little piggy caught the flu.
This little piggy caught the noro-virus.
And this little piggy got covered in scabby puss goo.
And this little piggy got covered in someone elses wee wee wee wee wee all the way home.
Until I washed it off my hand