Dead Parrot Sketch

I am suffering from chronic depression; I am not stupid!

There have been moments recently when I have felt that it might be a good idea to have that printed on a tee-shirt to save time when dealing with people. Yesterday I had the fun of attempting to intitiate a complaint and suddenly I felt like John Cleese embattled with a dopey shopkeeper who is incapable of responding appropriately to the appallingly dismal level of service that, for his sins, he is currently "front and centre" of and thereby directly responsible for.

My house move was precipitated, not to say catapulted foward, by the events that exploded my cosily idle head-in-the-sand idyll. Needless to say sudden and precipitous house-moving carries any number of hazards. Thankfully one of the worst potential hazards, that of an unpleasant escalation of the stress ordinarily involved, was rendered largely ineffectual because getting arrested was kind of analgous to being hit over the head with an axe as a cure for migraine. All of this boils down to the fact that come yesterday I could no longer postpone a trip to the pharmacy to collect the balance of my prescribed medicine.

I have mentioned before that my former domicile had a neat geographic location being equidistant from three completely different urban centres. The nicest of those, in ambience terms, is also one of the least pleasant in that it is a trifle middle-class snooty, a little expensive and rather limited in the choice of shops if your shopping list contains anything remotely exotic. It is also the location of my general practitioner and so it also the place where I have my prescriptions made up; the pharmacy — one of Jesse Boot's emporia &mdash is only a 2 minute walk from the doctor's surgery.

The doctor is a darling and his place of business is the least like a modern twenty-first century icon of production-line medicine I could imagine. I wouldn't change him for the world. The pharmacy is another matter. When I first hit the area there was a choice of three: Boots, a branch of another nationwide chain and an independent. One has ceased its pharmacy operations leaving just Boots and the independent. I took my last prescription to Boots as I always do ... mostly because I have a Boots loyalty card and over the years I've had it the pleasure of discovering that suddenly I have enough points for a serious treat is never less than the same childish pleasure one gets from ripping the paper from a long awaited birthday gift. I am easily pleased, I guess. Anywya, for reasons I failed to understand at the time, and still do, come to that, the Boots pharmacy was unable to fill my order. They did not half sufficient capsules to make up the required 28 day supply. After some negotiation I settled for leaving the store with 18 caps and the staff promised the remainder would be in store the following day and I could collect any time .... Big mistake!

Give me an inch and I will take it all the way down to last angstrom with the emphasis very much on the angst. The caps were venlafaxine 150mg but I also take a 75mg cap of the same every morning. I had plenty of the latter ... yeah! You're with me already. I ran out of the 75mg jobbies (if that isn't a Freudian scatalogical slip I don't know anything!) on Thursday night and so a journey to the land that time forgot became an overnight necessity. I finally set out in middle of Friday afternoon having finally run out of suddenly more urgent (and interesting) things that simply had to be done. I also needed to stock up on some fresh food so it would have been an excellent plan to take with me some of those stout carrier bags that the large supermarket chains have taken to selling in the hopes of weaning us off those free self-ripping things that are normally available to pack up the purchases. Naturally I did not plan nearly so far ahead. Getting to the pharmacy was my goal and nothing else was important until I had gotten my fix.

The first clue that something was awry came when the 12 year old pharmacist finally abandonned his search of the shelf behind the counter and went to the back of his little domain and began to riffle through a small box of scripts. In seconds he pulled one particular paper slip free and brought it to the counter working his face like bad actor hamming his way into something he was hoping might pass for concern by the time he cleared the stage wings and emerged into the limelight. He didn't fool me.

"I am sorry, but there has been an error," he said. He did look sorry. Sorry that he was the one who was stuck with the discovery of the incompetence and sorrier still that he was stuck with giving out the good news. I allowed a pregnant pause to smoulder in the inter-galactic chasm that lay between his concern for — and comprehension of — the real situation and mine. At length he realised that my muteness wasn't going miraculously to resolve itself without further input. "I can have them for you in the morning," he added, clearly struggling to remind himself not to smile hopefully as if he were suddenly telepathically aware that such a facial expression could easily be misunderstood. It wouldn't have been; I am an excellent reader of minds and of body language. I would however have maliciously mistaken a smile for a smirk, had one shown up, and beaten him with it about the head with delighted abandon, joyful to exploit a careless obsequious gesture. Unfortunately this was a well-trained 12 year old pharmacist. Clearly I needed to change up a gear. What we need here is good old-fashioned english charm ....

"I beg your pardon?" I said, my face a rigid shell.

"I'm afraid," he said, oozing professional calm. "There has been a mix up. I am sorry but we don't have these in stock."

"But how can that be possible?" I said. I waved my collection slip without vigour, just enough to draw his eyes to it. "They have been on order for three weeks." He looked as though he suddenly wished he had chosen to vivisect Canadian seal pups on the doorstep of an animal-rights campaign group's headquarters for a profession. His eyes fell to his computer screen. His fingers tapped at the keyboard. His eyes brightened with youthful enthusiasm.

"I just ordered them. They'll be here tomorrow."

"Excuse me?"

He repeated himself. Confident, foolish youth. Hah!

"And tonight?" I paused to allow the concept to sink in. I suspect he was thinking of wine bars, maybe a chicken balti, perhaps a movie ... probably all three. There wasn't a glimmer of comprehension in his eyes. "What do I take tonight?" I prompted.

Few questions have no answer. I don't know is pretty good one, if it is honest. However, it is with regret that I must bring the 12 year old pharmacist to the realisation to the knowledge that I am sorry isn't even close to being a good answer to my question. "I'm very sorry," he said.

Nice try, mate, but no cigar!

"I am not disputing that but it doesn't answer my question," I said tartly. "What do I take tonight? You're supposed to be the pharmacist, I imagine you might have some idea as to the reason I have been prescribed the medication. Are you completely happy with the idea that I will be fit and well tomorrow to arrive and collect?" Ooh I am mean. What a loaded question. I would massacre him if he dared answer. He was a clever bugger though. The Jesse Boot customer relations training must be first rate ... however although you can teach a parrot to say pretty polly it does not mean the damned avian knows what it's talking about. With almost admirable doggedness he stuck to the script.

"I am very sorry," he said. "But I am afraid that mistakes do happen ...". The ellipsis was almost to much to bear! I am expected to empathise with him? He thinks he can use verbal italics on me!

"Mistakes?" I said allowing the slightest of increases of volume that my laryngeal rheostat permits. "This isn't a mistake it is negligent incompetence!" There were customers behind me and they were shuffling about in that beautifully uncomfortable way that Brits affect when a looney materialises in the queue. That's OK with me. My psychiatrist agrees that I am safe to be out in the community but if having a psychiatrist makes me a looney then that's not a problem for me.

"I am very sorry. There is nothing I can do." It was clear that he needed to be moved from his script if this argument was to progress.

"So am I," I said. "I want to make a complaint. Have you an address I can write to?" And so we moved from the risible to the surreal.

He sidestepped to the cash register, rang up no sale and hauled out a tongue of blank Boots' company till roll paper and ripped off a few inches. He folded it carefully and trying — but failing — notto seem as though he was talking to a feeb he showed me the telephone number of the company's head office. "If you call this number someone will help you to deal with your complaint."

By now I am acutely conscious of the Python-esque atmosphere that had formed. I looked around beseechingly at my fellow customers. A lady behind me was waiting for her pills and turning back to the counter I noticed that the 12 year old pharmacist's hands were occupied with stuffing a box of pills into a paper bag. Outrage swelled in breast and if my beta receptors weren't also therapeutically blocked by Atenolol my blood pressure would have risen while my pulse rate would climbed to the sort of levels achieved by NASA astronauts around the time they realise that they're sitting on a very large bomb and the only way off is straight up.

"A phone number?" I said feigning shock and distress. "I want an address. I want a named individual to complain to. That is a National Health Service prescription, you are paid by the NHS for dispensing it and I have a legal right to competence and care."

"Yes, madam, but mistakes do happen," he was getting the Python bug too ....

"Mistakes, yes," I agreed. "This isn't a mistake. It is incompetence or negligence or both. It took you half a dozen mouse clicks to order the drugs didn't it? I have a receipt that tells me that the drugs were ordered 3 weeks ago when obviously they were not. That is negligence, not a mistake. A mistake is dispensing the wrong drug. I can accept mistakes. Mistakes are doing the wrong thing. Someone here — and I accuse no individual — did not make a mistake they did nothing. That is negligence, not an error. You pharmacists are so scared of making errors it takes you half an hour to take a box off a shelf and to apply a computer printed sticky label on it. A twelve year old could be safely trained to do your job." I decided it was time I shut up. Before I pointed out that I thought he was in fact only twelve anyway.

Of course he dissembled. I disagreed and remained adamant. He showed no sign of acceptance of corporate responsibility. There was a total absence of any hint that mind had wandered down through the bullet point list of skills to employ in dealing with problem customers. The one that looks like —

• Problem Solving Skills

— as for personal initiative and dedication ... pfah! I had already worked out for myself what the solution was, but he must have attended the class on how to deal with "difficult" customers because Boots is a very large manufacturing and retailing drug and personal products outfit. They recruit their graduates direct from the universities and induct them through the undoubtedly thorough and scientifically rigorous corporate policies on everything from equal opportunities through personal development plans to customer relations and control of hazardous substances and dangerous drugs. My problem wasn't that tough to figure out! I continued to chip away at his resistance with helpful prompts.

"And if I was a diabetic? You would advise returning tomorrow for my insulin?"

"Good job I don't have asthma and you're all out of Ventolin ....

A lady reached over my shoulder to hand in a prescription to be made up. "I shouldn't bother, chick," I said with a warm, but wry smile. "You'd be better off going to _____'s, cos these'll get you started with half a batch then expect you go cold turkey halfway through if you have the audacity to come back for the rest."

There was a very loud clank sound ... well I thought I ought to have heard such a sound! It was the sound of a penny dropping in the 12 year old pharmacist's hardly used noggin. "Maybe," he said. "I could run over the road to _____'s and see if they could loan me some Efexor to tide you over ...". His expression was one of sheer joy. I almost expected him to hold his hands above his head, clapping them together as he did a little hornpipe dance of celebration over his sudden flash of inspired problem-solving.

Hoo-bloody-ray!

"You do that sunshine and I'll be very happy customer," I said with a dead-pan expression. However I couldn't resist my parting shot. "You got half an hour ...."

I used the half hour to patronise the local branch of a supermarket chain that is the ultimate chameleon of the UK retail scene. This chain has traded under more names than can be counted. It caters to so many demographic mixes that if it were a sentient entity it would be in permanent therapy for serious multiple personality disorder. This particular store sells french-made store-baked baguettes as opposed to the execrable crumbly Canadian flour "french stick" found in more down-market locations. They also sell a passable brie and a not undrinkable Australian shiraz, however their plastic carrier bags are rubbish and they hurt my hands to carry home so it's back to the bum-slappers for me ... besides that store is within walking distance and even better is downhill all the way back. They also sell buttermilk which is almost unique in the UK.

I am the very model of a calm equanimity this morning. My cat is dozing agreeably on the window sill getting acquainted with the Saturday morning habits of the neighbours and a little while ago I found my coffee grinder, cafetiere, and a large jar of dark-roasted beans so maybe this afternoon or tonight I shall feel likr sitting down to commence work on my time as a PIC.