Mary and I were standing in our local pharmacy the other morning, waiting to collect our repeat prescriptions. We have arrived at that stage of life where certain bodily functions require regular administrative assistance from the pharmaceutical industry, and so we joined the quiet queue of fellow citizens waiting for their paper bags of medicinal comfort.
It was while standing among the displays of knee supports and radical hair-restorers that we experienced the other end of human behaviour. It is best described as supplying a catastrophic surplus of information.
I’m an introvert. The kind of person that will nod and smile, but hope you don’t want a long conversation. Mary, on the other hand, is a people person. She loves to chat to anyone up for it. Both of our approaches got tested in the local pharmacy.
It’s not that I dislike people being expressive. I’m of the view that it doesn’t do for us all to be the same. I’ve always liked people with strong individuality. I once worked with a bloke with dressed like a late Seventies punk. But he turned out to be a pleasure to work with.
But there are rules. Unwritten, for the most part. But rules, nevertheless. Like not belching or farting in public. Things like that. And yet, there are some people whose sense of decorum is… not quite when most people’s sit. I’m not a snob. It’s simply that I wouldn’t do anything to draw attention to myself when out and about. Unlike the lady that came storming into our local pharmacy that morning.
The shop door flew open and a middle-aged woman entered, possessing a speaking voice that closely resembled a foghorn in a gale. Addressing no one in particular, she immediately announced her recent medical history to the room.’They’ve just released me! Six days I’ve been in!
A few fellow queuing citizens offered polite nods. For my own part, I deployed the emergency procedure perfected by British men of a certain age when confronted by loud strangers: staring intently in the opposite direction and pretending to be deaf.
Undeterred, the woman marched up to the counter with furious purpose.’They didn’t give me a prescription for these,’ she declared to the assistant, ‘Though I asked while I was in there. Don’t usually get ’em, see.’
The assistant looked mildly bewildered. ‘How can I help you, madam?’
‘Ah, yes. I need some Anusol. Got a damn haemorrhoid, haven’t I?’
A profound silence descended upon the shop. The air ceased to move. The assistant uttered a discreet, polite throat-clearing noise while scanning the shelves behind her. Locating the box, she presented it upon the counter with as much delicacy as a person can muster when handing over a pack of suppositories.
‘Ah, yeah, that’s them,’ the customer bellowed, entirely unbothered by the audience of eight strangers behind her. ‘Six days I was in. They had me on a drip. That’s why I got the sodding haemorrhoid!’
‘Right,’ said the assistant, offering a smile engineered to discourage further detail. ‘And how are you feeling now?’
‘I’m alright. I just need to get home, have a cup of tea, and shove one of these buggers up.’
Mary shot me an immediate, lethal glance from the side of her eye. My shoulders had begun to vibrate with silent mirth. I managed to contain it, but only just. My mind wandering into a profound wonder as to how certain members of the public have managed to reach adulthood without ever discovering the concept of an internal filter.
We assumed the performance was over. We were mistaken.
‘Ooh,’ the woman fired up again, ‘Have you got my other prescription ready? The ones they had me on before?’
‘Yes, I’ll fetch them now,’ called the pharmacist from the back room. He sounded remarkably eager to conclude the transaction.
‘Ah, good. I feel proper weird without ’em.’
I was dying to inquire what chemical compound was required to maintain her baseline state of normalcy, but Mary was now delivering a level of silent, warning side-eye that could have cut through armour plate. I remained silent.
The lady, however, was far from finished.
‘You know what I don’t understand?’ she demanded of the entire shop. ‘Why won’t they let you out of the hospital until you’ve done one? I had to strain. Ended up with piles, didn’t I?’
The assistant produced a pale, tragic smile that silently begged for death. Mary physically grabbed my upper arm to steady me, as I was now shaking like a broken child’s toy. A gentleman standing near the door stared at the woman as though she had just landed from the moons of Jupiter.
The pharmacist reappeared at the counter so quickly he appeared to have levitated. He handed over the bag of medicine with lightning speed, but the customer was still warming to her theme.
‘Right, great. Off home then. Cup of tea, and then I’ll get on and shove…’
‘Okay! Goodbye!’ yelled the assistant, sinking into the rear of the shop as fast as her feet would take her.
The door clicked shut, and the entire shop let out a collective, exhausted sigh of relief.
As the lady shuffled past the window, I noticed she walked with a distinct, laboured limp. Mary and I gathered our paper bags and stepped out onto the pavement.
I looked at Mary. I couldn’t help it.
‘Did you see her leaving?’ I whispered. ‘Limping. Do you reckon that was her piles?’
‘Leave it,’ Mary snapped, not looking back. ‘Just leave it.’
Okay, fine. I might be being a little judgemental. But I still think that lady needed a visit back to the hospital, to have her internal filters looked at.
As a rule, I despise waiting in queues. But that one came very close to making me a fan.