I assume it's not just me, others too, find themselves in this situation. But there are times in life when you are forced into the most ridiculous conversations. Living with one or more junior recipe testers under the age of five will mean this is a daily occurrence. But it is made even more problematic when you are forced to have a ridiculous conversation in a very public place.
Now, I realise, I am at high risk of over-sharing here. So if you are prone to embarrassment, please do avert your eyes.
I recently had need to visit the GP. I had no major health outbreak of any description, but I did require a prescription. The prescription was not so unusual, or special. But, without wishing to be too indelicate, it was designed specifically for someone with a female, um, apparatus. It would be of no more use to someone of the opposite gender than a flyscreen on a submarine. And so, with prescription in hand, I dutifully went to the chemist.
The chemist I selected was, most unfortunately, one of those steroidal varieties which make you feel over-stimulated and exhausted as soon as you walk through the doors. The ones with no natural light and soul sapping fluorescent lighting that is only heightened by the fluoro pink and yellow price tickets that scream at you as you walk down over-stuffed aisles.
In every one of these prisms of despair, the prescription counter is right at the back. There is no choice but to squeeze down the narrow aisles and try to remain calm. By the time I reached the counter, my claustrophobic tendencies were in full flight, as I could no longer see the door or the exit. I should say, that I get anxious putting a tight jumper over my head; being unable to find the exit in a veritable Tardis has a similar effect.
I soothed myself with the knowledge that I would be out of there shortly, and handed over my prescription and my medicare card. Turning around, I noted a number of people occupying chairs placed near the pharmacy counter. They looked exceedingly bored. I suspected they had been there for quite some time. I consoled myself that even if I was not going to get out of there as quickly as I hoped, I would manage just fine.
Presently, an officious looking person in a pharmacy style coat called my name. Feeling rather smug, I glanced at the poor souls starting to nod off in their chairs and rushed to the counter.
Now, I should clarify: the senior recipe tester and I share a surname. We also share a first initial. His name is distinctly masculine, and would make an unbecoming term for a woman. My name would likewise be ridiculous on a man. I looked at the pharmacist. She was pointing at my medicare card, where mine and the senior recipe testers names were listed. "It says R Golding on the script. Who is this for?"
Surprised at the question, I looked at her blankly.
"Is it for you or Richard?"
For a split second, I was sure she was trying to make the afternoon a little more light-hearted.
"Um... it's for me."
"It's not for Richard?"
I glanced behind me. Every eye that had been drooping closed was now fully alert, in that, "I'm listening, but trying to look like I'm not listening" kind of way.
I weighed the options. At the risk of becoming even more indelicate, and now with an audience growing both in size and interest, I considered explaining that the senior recipe tester would derive some benefit from the prescription, insofar as it would maintain some rein over the number of junior recipe testers who live in our house...
Pragmatism took over. I was rapidly losing confidence that, as it was seemingly apparent the pharmacist hadn't actually read the script, I would in fact be given the thing I came in for.
"Can you see what is being prescribed?"
If your week is moving from the sublime to the ridiculous, may I suggest this week's menu?
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