You know you’re getting old when the pharmacist puts your medications in a carrier bag.
‘Here you are, dear,’ said the nice lady, who works behind the counter at my local chemist. And she handed me a bag. Now, the exact dimensions of this bag are crucial. I’ve measured it. It is 30cm long, or nearly 12 inches for those of you not yet participating in the metric era. Or for those who think more literally than that, it is a foot long. A whole foot, including toes. As to the width, we’re talking 21cm or eight and a quarter inches.
But that isn’t the worst bit. The worst bit is that the bag has handles. Handles, I tell you!
I am now so decrepit, my medications can only be borne through the streets if they are housed in a large, stiff paper bag with handles and a reinforced bottom.
How did all this creep up on me? I remember so well the days when, if I needed a few pills for something minor, usually an inflammatory issue to do with an athletic encounter with a horse, I would emerge from Boots with one tiny little packet. At most, I would be twirling a flimsy plastic mini-bag. My medications would require no more than that for perambulatory purposes.
Not any more. Not now that I have two distinct, on-going conditions: the cysts, which resulted in my nearly perishing in an appalling south London casualty department two weeks ago, and the eczema, which occurs periodically in response to stress.
Both seem to be working in conjunction with each other, so the pain from the cysts brings out the eczema, and the itching of the eczema irritates me into thrashing around and setting off the cysts.
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