Saturday afternoons

On the high street, I kill time in Poundland, tempted to buy an A4 pad for collecting random thoughts, or suppressing naughty, dangerous ones. I buy five, and outside, use my body like a barometer. The cold wind taunts me. I pop into Tesco and buy a BOGOF offer I don't need.

It feels like enough time has passed, a bit like taking a power nap. I make a move for Boots and an image of mum flashes past my eyes: she pops two irbesartan pills with dinner while watching Dancing on Ice.

The pharmacist apologises for the delay; could I wait another ten or so minutes? I circle the Stop Smoking shelves, put twenty pence in the electronic scales and it tells me my heart rate is high. I try to recognise some of the medicines in the trays behind the counter full of waiting prescriptions. An old man coughs. It sounds like the wrath of Zeus.

The prescription is ready.

Tonight mum will wear her lime green towelling robe despite the central heating being up full blast.

The pharmacist places two bulging bags of pill boxes on the counter. I imagine I catch a glimpse of amazement on her face.

“Can I use my Boots card?” I joke, for no reason other than I say it each time I collect.

The pharmacist smiles politely.

Outside, I clutch the bags as the wind kicks up, trying to carry them away. What would happen if I let it?