Retailer Pharmacists. As Ill-principled as the Medical Industry.


I presented early at Soul Pattinson, Beaudesert, first thing in fact, as the polite junior girl took the first of many mobile display units jamming the aisles to their places outside the shop.

“Can I help you,” proffered the senior shop assistant, as I neared the counter clutching my only reason for visiting such an establishment, a script needing filling.

“It’s the last repeat,” stressing the point, getting the jack of being told what I’m well aware of.

I sat down.

“Have you been here before,” she demanded, “I have that,” was my honest reply, surprised at the question, considering a few weeks before she had needlessly apologized for the short, normal wait.

“I’m not so important as to expect instant attention,” I had told her.

“Oh, but you are very important to us,” came the palavered reply

Minutes later the product had been taken from the shelf, re-stamped with my details, placed in a small tray and passed to the senior woman.

“That was the last repeat,” she echoed my words of a few minutes earlier.

“Am I so retarded that I’ve forgotten what I told you”?

“I’ve got to tell you that,” the comeback.

The previous visit I had had an amiable conversation with one of the proprietors about chemists’ penchant for claiming scripts as their property by wrapping them in their branded advertising and stapling together.

About that time, in the few metres between Woolworths and their shop, I had lost a gold ring and despite the futility of recovering such an item, had returned to the shop with my predicament. In other words, intelligent people would have remembered my presence.

Cash grabbing chemists look upon oldies as an assured and constant money source and like the rest of society, would prefer dealing with contrite, obedient non-thinking slabs of old meat.

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