Happy pills

Friday October 20, 2006

“I got you a little pressie,” Graham said, handing me a small paper bag from the pharmacy.

I felt the bag. There was something soft inside. “What on earth?”

“You’ll just have to open it to see.”

So I reached a pair of fingers inside and pulled out… Micro-puss!.

“Oh, wow!” I said. “He’s so cute!”

“What will you call him?”

“Micky the Micro-puss.”

“Fair enough.”

 


 
Micky the Micro-puss

 

And off we went to Sainsbury’s from the dentist’s, in seach of soup and soft bread. Poor Graham smelled like a vet’s office, all antibiotic and painkilling substances. It was far worse for him—he had the stuff in his mouth. Yesterday he’d complained of a bit of pain and discomfort from the site of the extraction and this morning, peering in his mouth in the mirror he let out a squeak of dismay. Clearly, something was wrong, so he fixed a ‘squeeze-in’ appointment and we’d whistled him down late in the morning.

Sure enough, he’d sprouted a major infection in the wound and needed further attention.

“I feel really guilty about this,” I said.

“How do you make that out?”

“Well, it was me persuaded you to get the darn things pulled and not only that, I had mine pulled with no problem at all and the gums are now so well healed I can chew bits of apple on them. Doesn’t seem fair you should be having so much trouble.”

“Don’t be daft. I didn’t need any persuasion to get them fixed. Mine’ll heal up sooner or later.”

“Well, alright. It’s still not fair, though.”

We picked up a really strong-tasting minestrone for him and a chicken and mushroom soup for me, along with a soft white organic loaf. He couldn’t taste anything but the stuff that’d been wedged into the wound.

“Does it still hurt?” I asked.

“Nope. And the swelling is almost gone, too.”

The sun had been shining bright from a lovely blue sky all the way through as if it too felt a little guilty after hiding behind rain clouds for days. As we went off for our siesta, though, it disappeared again behind heavy cloud cover. A small breeze came up, bringing brief but savage rain squalls with it. And daytime darkness. When we set off for St Audries it was so dim and overcast I had to put the headlights on, about two hours before official lighting-up time.

“I hate this darkness,” I said. “Makes me feel starved of light.”

“You’d better start popping your winter blues pills, then. The clocks change this weekend [actually, on Sunday 29th October] and it’ll start getting really dark.”

“Lordy. Doesn’t it all come round and round?”

Back home, having left Graham in the caravan ready to start his last full week of the year, I dutifully popped a fluoxetine and, just so’s I wouldn’t feel too grown up and responsible about it, washed it down with two glasses of a fairly decent white wine.

“Probably not a good idea to mix Prozac and wine, Dolly. Not until my system’s adjusted to the happy pills, anyway.”

I got no answer from her so I put the same proposition to Micky the Micro-puss. He didn’t answer either. It’s all right for them, they don’t get annual calls from the black dog. Just as well for the black dog, too, for it’s likely that Dolly and Micky between them would kill him dead. Not such a bad idea, that, come to think of it.

 

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