Renewing a Prescription

Good morning dear reader and welcome to another day at Comb Towers. I am feeling quite sheepish today and in fact, extremely embarrassed. For an allegedly intelligent woman I can be a bit of a numpty sometimes.

So, all I had to do was fill out a repeat prescription form, toddle up the road to the medical centre with it and hand it in at the Reception desk. Or, so I thought. But, no. Handling crumpled bits of paper is a tad beneath our Receptionists these days. There is now a dedicated post box to the side of their office window.

I was directed towards it and a very smart piece of kit it was too. Actually in the shape of a small post box. Let me emphasise, dear reader, a small post box with a small opening to post the prescriptions through. Just like a normal letterbox it had a lift-up flap covering the opening.

So far so very good. As my dear Spouse is wont to say, I am somewhat vertically challenged, making 5’2” on a good day and the prescription post box was situated quite a bit higher up the wall and required me to stand on tiptoes to try and complete this operation.

But … I like a challenge and got on with the job, only I didn’t. In my enthusiasm I rammed the prescription paper quite hard into the opening; too hard, sadly and my hand got stuck in the opening.

Gently I tried to pull my hand out but it was stuck fast. I tried again to no avail. My knuckles were the problem, lodged tight in the slot. I was getting hot under the collar and tugged again with no result.

By now I was at the mild panic and very embarrassed stage. I looked around but no-one was taking any notice of me loitering in the corner. In the short time that I had been heaving and tugging away, the small Reception area had filled up with people, either exchanging pleasantries with each other or in converse with the staff.

‘Erm, excuse me,’ I tried. No response. Very hot under the collar and red in the face, I tugged again but my wretched hand was stuck fast. Not ready yet to shout full-blown, ‘help’, I continued down the polite road. ‘Excuse me … anyone? I think I’m stuck and I can’t get my hand out of here. Maybe a member of staff … with a key? No-one took a blind bit of notice.

I mean, really, what did I have to do? Swing from it to attract anyone’s attention? What did they think I was doing there? Just passing the time away? Enjoying hanging about the dark recesses of the medical centre? My poor knuckles were getting scraped and sore and the blood draining away from my fingers. Something would have to be done.

I upped the ante. In a louder voice, ‘Hello, I think I need some help here. I think I’m stuck. I’ve got my hand stuck in the postbox.’ Success. At least six pairs of eyes swivelled my way and as many eyebrows raised, but no-one moved in my direction.

Taking a deep breath, I called out. ‘Could a member of staff come to my assistance please? I’m stuck.’ I hear muffled snorts and sniggers. ‘It’s not funny,’ I shouted indignantly. ‘It could happen to anyone. It might be you lot next time.’

It didn’t stop the sniggering but at least someone motioned for the Receptionist to leave her glassed-in office and join the great unwashed in the foyer. She took in the scene. Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline and she gawped wordlessly. Yes, I do mean gawped. ‘Are you stuck?’ she enquired.

Yes, dear reader, you know exactly what I would have liked to say. As in - ‘no, I always hang about like this here.’ With great heroic effort I refrained, smiled sweetly and said, ‘I’m afraid so. I think I got a bit carried away with posting my prescription.’

Patiently I hung there whilst she studied me. ‘I think I’ll have to go and find the key to unlock it and get you out that way. Don’t go away,’ and she bustled off. “Don’t go away”! What did she think I was going to do? Wrench the bloomin’ thing off the wall and leg it down the road?

It seemed an eternity before she returned. Meanwhile patients and staff too-ed and fro-ed and I stood there like the biggest lemon on earth, avoiding their gaze and trying to look nonchalant as if I was meant to be there all along.

The lady returned with the key and unlocked the box, lowering the front which meant that I could come down off my tiptoes. She reached inside the box, sending a flurry of prescription papers fluttering to the floor, but best of all she pushed on my fingers from the inside and I pulled from the outside and bingo, like a cork from a bottle, my hand came away. Yes, it was a bit black and blue and swollen but it was back with me, its rightful owner.

I thanked her profusely and was about to slink red-faced out of the door and then she said, ‘Maybe next time, Mrs Comb, you might like to just hand it in at Reception, just to be on the safe side.’ She smiled sweetly. I ground my teeth and then slunk out of the door.

News travels fast in a small village. I have been mortified by the comments that have come my way since then. Posted any letters lately, Patricia?.. Been in any good post-boxes?.. Hear you were hanging about the medical centre a bit… Etc., etc. Why do they think they are all so funny? They most definitely are not. Not one whit of sympathy came my way.

And worst of all - I never mentioned a word to Spouse. I mean, why would I? Give him ammunition to fire? Not likely, but the tale came to his ears anyway and he has greatly enjoyed tormenting me. Shall I post your letters for you dear? Don’t want to take any chances do we? Think of the risks … your poor hands. You just leave it to me …

Grrrrr. Just you wait until your next mishap, Spouse. I can wait, I can wait …..