These Boots were made for hawking

So last night I remembered to pick up my prescription about and hour after I had passed the shop. No matter, just pick it up this morning.

Simples.

Except that there is always something to complicate things, isn’t there? I mean they were being helpful and all, but one thing leads to another and suddenly you are filling out pieces of paper and stuff. This is okay; it just means that the prescription renewals will be handled by the Victoria branch rather than my local Ilford branch. This is oddly useful. The local Boots are not open when I go to work and are closed by the time I get home, meaning that only weekends are of any use. Having my prescriptions filled out and reordered from Victoria makes a great deal of sense.

The trouble is, that riding in with these sensible measures come the promotion spiel and leaflets: the bits of paper you don’t want and, Gawdelpus, a free gift.

The helpful lady said, “enjoy your free gift” as I left the premises. At my desk I investigated. It is a bag of sorts. Pouch, perhaps. A browny-grey with a browny-orange lining. It opens up in many different ways, there are zips everywhere, a sort of Laura Ashley meets Vivienne Westwood punk sensibility for men, but with commonsense applied. In it there are tubes of strange creams: things to slop on my face, things to remove wrinkles around the eyes, something to cut down friction when shaving (I thought you needed a certain level of friction when shaving or the whiskers would stay put). I swear if I’d found nail polish, I would have hit someone.

The worst thing, though, are the cuff links. I don’t want to call them cheap, because cheap things might be offended. They are hideous. I think someone has found an obscure and probably defunct African or ex-Soviet nation and adapted its flag as the design for the cufflinks.

I think I shall stay with the short sleeves for now. Or roll up long sleeves.

This is why I need blood pressure medicine in the first place. It’s a self-perpetuating problem.

These Boots were made for hawking

So last night I remembered to pick up my prescription about and hour after I had passed the shop. No matter, just pick it up this morning.

Simples.

Except that there is always something to complicate things, isn’t there? I mean they were being helpful and all, but one thing leads to another and suddenly you are filling out pieces of paper and stuff. This is okay; it just means that the prescription renewals will be handled by the Victoria branch rather than my local Ilford branch. This is oddly useful. The local Boots are not open when I go to work and are closed by the time I get home, meaning that only weekends are of any use. Having my prescriptions filled out and reordered from Victoria makes a great deal of sense.

The trouble is, that riding in with these sensible measures come the promotion spiel and leaflets: the bits of paper you don’t want and, Gawdelpus, a free gift.

The helpful lady said, “enjoy your free gift” as I left the premises. At my desk I investigated. It is a bag of sorts. Pouch, perhaps. A browny-grey with a browny-orange lining. It opens up in many different ways, there are zips everywhere, a sort of Laura Ashley meets Vivienne Westwood punk sensibility for men, but with commonsense applied. In it there are tubes of strange creams: things to slop on my face, things to remove wrinkles around the eyes, something to cut down friction when shaving (I thought you needed a certain level of friction when shaving or the whiskers would stay put). I swear if I’d found nail polish, I would have hit someone.

The worst thing, though, are the cuff links. I don’t want to call them cheap, because cheap things might be offended. They are hideous. I think someone has found an obscure and probably defunct African or ex-Soviet nation and adapted its flag as the design for the cufflinks.

I think I shall stay with the short sleeves for now. Or roll up long sleeves.

This is why I need blood pressure medicine in the first place. It’s a self-perpetuating problem.