Keeping tabs on Shana
Shana had what I have taken to calling a ‘medicament predicament’ this week: she found she was running low on her tablets. For those who don’t know Shana like I know Shana, I should explain: to keep her levels of ecstatic jollity on an even keel she has to take one Quakkaduk capsule six times a day. Only after meals, though.
And so it was in search of pharmaceutical replenishment that we went this morning. And the best place to go for that is dear old Boots. Funny, isn’t it, that the only thing they don’t sell at Boots is boots. No footwear to be had at all (as far as I know, anyway) at Boots; not so much as a flip-flop in sight. (Not that I was looking very hard though: I mean, it would have ruined the joke if I’d found any shoes for sale. And let’s face it, this particular joke was feeble enough to start with.)
We had a few minutes to wait while Boots’ very own alchemist made up Shana’s order. I contented myself with reading all the signs in the store and soon found intellectual stimulation by pondering on the etymology of the word ‘paracetamol’, which was displayed in ten-inch-high letters over the cold ‘n’ flu remedy counter, just opposite the Boots dispensary.
Shana was having none of my fascination with words this morning, though, and simply declared me to be ’sad’. And an ‘anorak’.
“I wonder what’s going on back there,” I said, indicating the back room of Boots’ dispensary, where, presumably, they keep all their bubbling test tubes and pots of oinkment.
As usual, I had no need to wait for Shana. I just babbled on, answering my own question:
“I can just imagine what they’re saying,” I said. “‘Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, oh dammit! I’ve gone and lost count of these tablets. I’ll have to start all over again now. One, two, three…’”
By this time, Shana was ignoring my wafflings. (Or maybe she’d been ignoring them all along. Who can tell?) I was, however, not deterred:
“On the other hand,” I said, “they might be preparing the liquid medicines that you sometimes take. I can just see it now, as one busy pharmacist accidentally bumps into another and drops of your Liquid Quakkaduk are spilled onto the floor: ‘Quick, someone clear this stuff up. It’s corroding the tiles!’”
Perhaps, I suggested, we should look out for any clouds of noxious vapour billowing from under the door of the Boots mini-lab.
On the other hand, it would probably only be a Saturday temp trying to sneak a crafty smoke.
Much to Shana’s relief, though, her prescription arrived at that moment and we were both spared any more of my over-fecund imaginings. I’m still wondering about ‘paracetamol’ though: is there really any truth in that old gag about ‘parrots eat ‘em all’. No, it can’t possibly be.