There are few things in life more humbling than queuing in a chemist. It's the great leveller. There I was, standing dutifully in line at my local pharmacy, clutching a prescription and trying to look like I wasn't judging anyone, when the universe decided to remind me why I should never leave the house without a sense of humour; I thank my dad for that!
Ahead of me, just two people. Easy. Simple. In and out in five minutes, I thought. Oh, sweet innocent me. First in line, an elderly gentleman of around 80, who looked like he'd just escaped from a Dickens novel. He was wheezing, coughing and leaning on the counter like it was the only thing between him and the afterlife. Behind him, a teenager wearing AirPods and the faint look of someone whose only plan today was not being seen in public with their parents. And then me, caught in some kind of retail purgatory.
Now, the chemist had one member of staff. One. Singular. And let's just say, customer service wasn't exactly her specialty. A young woman with a thick accent and absolutely no concept of discretion, boundaries or queue anxiety. She was deep in conversation with two young girls, loudly and enthusiastically dissecting their struggles with contraceptives like it was a panel discussion on "Loose Women".
I learned a lot against my will. These pills apparently weren't agreeing with their "systems." Bloating, mood swings, irregular cycles, you name it, we all heard about it. The staff member might as well have had a megaphone and a PowerPoint. Meanwhile, the queue grew, tensions rose and I started imagining the kind of medieval punishments I'd happily support for queue-jumpers.
After what felt like the full gestation period of a baby elephant, she finally waved the elderly man forward. He shuffled up to the counter, still coughing, and I thought, genuinely, bless him, he probably needs something urgent, lifesaving even. An inhaler, maybe. Heart meds.
Nope.
He leans in and, in a voice as dry as my toast, says, "Can I have some Viagra, please?"
I did what any emotionally stunted Brit would do... I laughed. Out loud. One of those involuntary bursts that turns heads and earns disapproving glares from people pretending not to be just as entertained. I wasn't alone though... the teenage girl in front of me started shaking too, her shoulders bouncing like she'd swallowed a giggling bed spring.
The staff member, entirely unfazed by this elderly Lothario's request, asked him a few standard questions. "Any changes since you last used it?" I was half-expecting him to say he'd recently joined a yoga class or taken up pole dancing. But no. Without a flicker of shame, he pointed at the box and said, "Not that one. The big one. 36 tablets."
Thirty-six! At his age, that's either impressive or potentially lethal. I almost applauded. Frankly, if he's pulling that kind of frequency, someone should be writing his biography, not judging him.
Eventually, the moment arrived. My turn. I approached the counter, barely able to keep a straight face, and said, "I'll have what he's having." Dead silence. The staff member looked at me like I'd asked her to help me smuggle illegal fireworks through customs.
So, I tried again.
"He's a bit of a show-off, isn't he? Going for 36… I've got the sex life of a giant panda."
That cracked her. She burst out laughing, finally, and in that moment, the air lightened. I got my prescription (nothing as exciting as 36 Viagra, sadly) and left with the sort of satisfaction you can only get from shared public humiliation.
And so, the moral of this little tale? Sex is clearly better for your health than statins. It might not lower your cholesterol, but it will raise spirits, eyebrows, and judging by Mr 36 Pack; possibly the roof.
Next time, I'm taking popcorn.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
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