Dr and the medics

I have just wasted three hours of my life, involved in a bout of the strange Spanish ritual of queuing at the Centro de Salud, a regular trip to the village doctors. Nothing up, just an insulin prescription fill for No 1 son and his diabetes syringe requirements.
A windy day, I took my place outside, as the Medico - as usual - was late. Seems to be a different one each time here in Murtas,  nobody seems to want the job.  I opened my book and leaned against a sunny wall to wait.  Hey, Mujer! Which number are you? one of them called.....Well I answered looking at the two of them, I would guess number three...No no impossible, you're at least No 5, the other answered. The first chipped in with as I was a  foreigner, I wouldn' t understand her and probably had no idea what number I was.  I replied somewhat testily that it didn't matter and that  I understood everything. Humpf.  
So along came a man with a key, no medical qualifications that I know of, and let us in out of the wind. As we sat there the room began to fill with Elders of the Black Stocking Brigade and still no sign of the doctor.  The conversation as each person entered went like this:  
New person:  Who's last?
(really tempting here to shout  'you are')
Everyone else argues which number they are with much pointing to the stupid blonde woman in the flip flops (in November, obviously crazy) 

Finally the doctor and nurse arrive, throw their bags in ....and announce they are off to the bar for coffee ?!

So I followed them, I'll tell you my next move is to the deepest Amazon where I guess an undiscovered tribe would be easier to live amongst....

By the way when I finally got my appointment, they were out of stock of what I needed..... and the Farmacia didn't have the insulin either.