November 10, 2021
I popped into a pharmacy yesterday as I have a small but persistent spot to the left
of my chin and I wanted to get something to dry it up. Despite not having bought spot
cream (as I called it in my teenage days) for many years, I assumed it would be a
simple process. I was wrong.
An enthusiastic pharmacist bounded out from behind the counter and asked to see
the spot. I lifted my mask. He led me to the skincare section and rifled through the
shelves, seeking a suitable treatment. It appeared there was no spot cream.
Then he started asking me questions. “Do you wear a mask a lot?” “Are you using
new shaving cream?” “What are you washing your face with?”
It was just a little spot. All I wanted was some spot cream.
He had more questions. “Have you been rubbing your face?” “Are you on any
medication?” “Do you cradle your phone into your neck for long periods?”
Do I cradle my phone into my neck for long periods? No I don’t.
He asked to see the spot again. I showed him.
It was just a little spot. All I wanted was some spot cream.
And yet more questions. “Can I take your name?”
Why did I need to give him my name to buy some spot cream. I’m 56 years old.
“Can I take your address?”
It was getting a bit Kafka.
I gave him my name and address anyway. I’d probably have told him my sort code
and mother’s maiden name if it would have helped.
By this point a queue had built up. People were peering at me. One of the other
pharmacists in the backroom glanced up to look at the man with a spot who was
holding everyone up.
It was just a little spot. I’m fit and healthy. All I wanted was something to dry it up.
Finally, the pharmacist headed to the back of the shop and emerged with something
that he thought might help. It was a tube of spot cream. He took my card payment for
£9.99. I felt terribly relieved.
I was ready to leave but the pharmacist hadn’t quite finished. To avoid getting more
spots, he advised me to change my pillow covers more often.
More often than what? How does he know how often I change my pillow covers?
But because I’m polite, British and hate confrontation, I thanked the pharmacist.
I turned to leave the shop. It was done. I’d got my spot cream and I was left with just
one thought.
Thank God it wasn’t piles.
