Day and Night Pharmacy – I Lost My Head

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I’ve just flown into the train. I’m huffing. I’m puffing. I’d have been late for work at the hub where I’m now employed. I’ve lost my pharmacy. I don’t want to lose my job.
A good-for-nothing somebody has left a disposable coffee mug and spilt some of its contents on a table. There’s an empty seat there. I want it. I’ll clean the mess. I don’t mind. I need to read and record my CPD; evidence of continual professional development. The professional body has asked to see it or I’ll get struck off the register.
The big guy in front of me won’t let me pass. I’m boiling. My mother is not that short for a woman, why couldn’t I get some of her genes and grow taller?.. Regression to mediocrity, I hate genetics.
‘Now, come on man, out of the way,’ I’m not getting anywhere fast here. Then this chap budges in between us and quickly builds two cone shapes using sand and matter, ‘This is your mother’s boob and that is your mothers’ boob’.
I’m thinking, ‘Oh please, don’t take me back to that St Mary’s ghetto where I grew up. I’m a professional man now’.
I don’t get a chance. The bully in my face kicks at both sand cones and grimaces. He’s just ignited the wrong spark plug in my brain. He’s just kicked my mother’s boob and erased his mother’s before I’ve had a chance to exert revenge. I kick him hard where it matters.
abel-losing-headI don’t see it coming. He gives me a satanic uppercut that decapitates my head sending it flying down the passage, hitting the doors open before rolling off into the next carriage.
I am shouting, ‘I’ve lost my head. I’ve lost my head’ when my spin stops against a big grimy boot. I can just catch the whiff of fungi at work. The lad looks down at me and casually utters ‘What a mess!’ before delivering a back heel that rolls me further down the carriage.
‘Ticket, please. Ticket, please,’ a woman is hovering above me like a ginormous fly. ‘I am not paying twice,’ I snap.
This is enough to trigger the witch in her. The lady winches my head up by my carpet hair and swings her arm around like a helicopter rotter blade. ‘Off you go, idiot!’ she shrieks as she lets my head break through the train window and fly over the fence into some pasture. As my head spins and flies I can see the remaining passengers with popped eyes gleefully watching as if I were some circus. They are all cheering and jeering, sharing high-fives with grins that display teeth that are clamouring for the sugar tax to be implemented with immediate effect.
My face lands onto a big, fat warm-fresh dung. I spin out of it swearing, bull this bull that. I don’t mind the smell.. but then, I taste something.. Oh, oh. I’m spitting like a cobra but with the frequency of a plantation irrigation sprinkler.
Meanwhile my torso is still on the train in a full blown slugging match with that lump. Now there is Mike Tyson, tattoos and all, egging me on and shouting, ‘Eat him. Eat him’. Chris Eubank is also there, cheering with a swagger.
But there’s also some invisible force shaking me profusely. There is a lot of loud shouting and chanting bouncing off my ear drums like a high teenager listening to grime through Dr Dre ear phones at full blast, ‘Stop it. You’re spitting at me. Stop it. You’re spitting at me. Stop it!’
I open my eyes. It’s the wife. There’s thunder in her eyes; she’d been caught in Hurricane Abel.
I was exhausted. I was drenched in sweat… and spit. What a nightmare! Sorry, boss.
Is a medicine you are taking inducing vivid dreams? Some of the culprits are; galantamine, propranolol and other bitter blockers, simvastatin, ciprofloxacin and more. Speak to your doctor or pharmacist.

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