An Injection of Light relief or Piling on the Pressure

I’m walking towards a clinic in the Leicester Royal Infirmary. 

I’m early, having dropped Liz off at the station to catch her train to London.

Could I save time by asking if my name be inserted higher up the que?

I make a mental stab at a proposal.

“I know I’m at the bottom, but would you be able to push me up…?”

That won’t do.  Need’s something more assertive. 

“Not wishing to cut in…”   No, too sharp and to the point.

“Sorry to interject…”  My thoughts jabber on.

When I arrive there is no one else there.  I see the doctor straightway, and he tells me that they don’t do injections anymore.  It’s back to the bands. 

Tight cheeked, I leave whistling a high-pitched tune.