The Pharmacist : Plan B

 

The Morning After (and the Pharmacist Who Knows Too Much)

So… after the meet with ’Tism and the split condom, I had to do the most mortifying thing possible. March my arse down to the pharmacy on a bank holiday Monday for the morning-after pill. For my American readers: that’s Plan B.

This was a first.

Young pharmacist ushers me into the consultation room. In the UK, you get it free if you answer their questions so I figure I'll answer them. Name. Easy. Date of birth. He double-takes.

“How old are you?”
“34.”
“No way. I thought you were way younger.”

Cheers, young pharmacist. Compliments and contraception in one go, the day might be improving!

We get into the medical questions. “Was this a regular partner?” Nope. “Was this a one-off?” Also nope. His eyebrows are climbing higher than his hairline. Then he spots my wedding ring.

“Are you married?”
“Yep.”
“Was it your husband?”
“Nope.”

At this point his eyes are doing Olympic-level gymnastics. “Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“So… how?”

“It’s complicated.”

I smile. He stares. He presses. I repeat "It's complicated" half a dozen times to his questions but before I know it, out it comes.

“I’m a swinger.”

Now his eyes aren’t just wide, they’re on stalks. Suddenly I’m being interrogated like the prime suspect in a police drama. “How do you get into it? Would I be popular? Where do you go? What do you do?”

Mate, I came for a pill, not a podcast interview.

I scribble down the main websites on a scrap of paper (children in tow, lest we forget) and slide it across like it’s state secrets. He asks for my number “in case he has questions.” I decline. Politely, but firmly.

I take the pill, collect my dignity (what’s left of it), and leave in total disbelief. 

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