Atrium

The East Atrium

The doors are unexpectedly electric; they are of the thick wooded breed
that
always give you a battle and usually involve you slinking under the
armpit
of thoughtful, stronger strangers. These doors open before you even
touch
the cool, white metal. Then, before you is the lobby and it is
beautiful.

It is a huge cavernous space flooded not with singing fluorescence but
with
natural light that flows in from the windows. There is a reception desk
that
is entirely empty and this is good, good! Places like this are
usually
manned with dead-eyed security guards, pinched out of all empathy or
a
receptionist with a deep love of the middle distance. Not so here
where
there is no need for such pollution. The desk is clear and the lines
are
perfect. High above your head is a sight to behold: someone has wrought
a
garden of iron. Ivy leaves snake around the ceiling, there are
butterflies
and flowers and they are coloured with stained glass. It twinkles
and
shimmers - the surprise of it! - the colours twist and refract; stray
reds
and greens slip across the wall, following the sun. Those in a hurry
would
not see this.

Beside the reception is a map that tells you precisely where you are.
There
is a system that is to be admired for its simplicity: every ward and
amenity
is listed alphabetically with its location (East, West or Centre
Atrium) and
then the floor that it lives on. The map itself is clear, labelled
"East",
"Centre", "West," no more. Is there a better way to engender hope?
This
inspired piece of cartography tells us that things are being taken out
of
our hands: just go to the proper atrium and follow the signs. Of
course
there will be signs and signs of quality. Self navigation and blind
trust, a
perfect marriage of design and desire. This is the stuff that spurs you
to
Go! Go! Go! Should you want to.

However, this implies that the East Atrium is a kind of limbo, a
place
before The Place; this is not entirely true. The lobby of the East
atrium is
perfect for those brisk, blurry walks one must occasionally take. It is
not
overpopulated in the slightest - people dribble in and out but they
consist
mostly of the elderly and members of staff. It does bear mentioning
here
that the doctors are, without exception, shockingly attractive. The
lower
floor of the Atrium houses the family of vending machines, a cash point
and
a gift shop. The most notable thing here is the apparent stranglehold
Pepsi
Co. has over the NHS. There is nary a Coke product to be found - if you
must
have some then you've committed yourself to a trip to the Central
Atrium.
This is not nearly so aesthetically pleasing; the corridors' insistent
beige
is broken up by photographs taken by a local artiste. One is titled
"An
Orange and String". The plaque on the wall explains that the
artist's
intention was "to take images of commonplace things and infuse them
with a
sense of childlike wonder." He has wasted his life.

Aside from its shocking brand bias, the gift shop houses a variety
of
sweets, biscuits and fruit baskets. The apples are not recommended.
The
apples are sub-par: when bitten one discovers the woolly soft innards
of
fruit allowed to linger too long. An old woman mans the shop -
her
conversation is tangential and she cannot work the till properly. If
she
wanted so badly to "keep herself busy during the day" then she would
do
better to join the walkers of the Atrium and admire the kindness of it
all:
the iron butterflies, the clear lines, the plan and the light - so
damn
bright and so damn much - twisting, bending, refracting, burning the
colours
to the wall.