Sinus problems, haters gonna hate. A second day off work in as many weeks isn’t good for morale or the ol’ personal finances. Doctors surgeries are depressing places aren’t they? Even the upbeat spunky 90s tunes being tannoyed from Star FM can’t lift the mood as I wait in line for the only appointment they had... 10 bloody 40. Behind all these retired people...who don’t have to be at work and could do this at any other time of the day. Pffft. Anyway, after the classic ‘poke and grill’ (that’s grill as in to question, rather than to BBQ, although that would perk me up farrrr quicker) it’s off to next door to the chemist.
Not many places make you feel like a comedy-tv burglar as enter a shop, but Lloyds Pharmacy is such a place. BLAP, Whooooosh. The alarm and the temperamental auto-door are as offensive to my sore ears as a salvo of Howitzers, but less awe-inspiring. By the time I’m actually in the queue, (oh yes, Blighty’s quintessential institutions of queuing and the NHS are inseparable) I’m bored and vexed out of my throbbing mind.
Second in line for the joy parade, I hear a soft yet alien voice coming from the entrance:
BLAP, Whoooosh.
“Oohh, hello Mavis, alreet I hoope?” (Scottish accent, not poor spelling)
“Yes ta me dear, just a wee bit of problem with me knee.” (massive surprise when I realised there were numerous Scots in suburban Gloucester)
“Not too painful I hooope?”
“Ahhh nooo, just a wee bit sorrrr, I cannae kneel on it, but I can still kick the husband where (it hurts) !”
After I turn my head, smiled and brought myself out of what I briefly envisioned was the set of Still Game (great comedy) I request to have the lady behind the till transfer a green piece of paper into magical tablets for the price of £7.20, like some sort modern-day alchemy.
The thing I miss the most about living in Wales (besides the people, rugger, countryside, weather, culture, language and ambience) is the free prescriptions. Not only do you have to pay, you have to declare your name rank and serial number before they hand you over the drugs which you just paid for...5 minutes ago. I’m Paul Edwards not Mr Benn - I haven’t changed address or outfit to confuse you; I’ve just been pretending to look at the mens razors because it’s more socially acceptable than looking at oral thrush tablets in the absence of adequate seating provision.
After leaving with the magic beans only Jack would be proud of, I venture home for a day of sofa, tea, the Telegraph crossword and the inevitable Channel 4 afternoon western. (Columbo is so ‘old-hat’....and old-coat come to think of it.)
So there we have it, the joys of being ill. I hope you had more exciting days than myself and if you didn’t; get better soon.
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