I hate the fucking things.
Between the two of us, we get through around thirty a day.
Once a month I have to phone the chemist and place an order for our monthly supply. I could just call down but then it would mean I’d have to hang around for an hour or two while they sorted them. It’s easier [and warmer] to phone in the order and then collect later in the day.
Then twice a week I have to sit down, toss out a large bag of boxes and packets onto the table and carefully fill the pill boxes that have little compartments for each day and for morning and evening. This of course involves trying to prise little tablets out of their little bubble packs which seem to be made of stainless steel, with the designed intention of preventing aged fingers from accessing them. For some reason Herself’s box is slightly out of sync with mine so I do mine on a Friday and hers on a Sunday.
I used to take just a couple a day but after my “event” last year my quota has shot up and I now take more pills than Herself which pisses her off. She has lost the top spot as the family hypochondriac.
Occasionally I would forget to dole out the morning or evening supply which would result in interesting side effects during the day or else a very restless night. So now I have two alarms set on my mobile phone, morning and evening to remind me that it’s Pill Time.
This morning I dropped her pill box. The fucking pills went all over the place. Naturally it was nearly full as I had filled it yesterday. So I had to try and retrieve them all and then sort them all into the right compartments. Difficult as of course most of ’em are round and white with little to differentiate one from another. If I get them in the wrong boxes she’d probably sleep all day and then insist on a rave-up party at four in the morning.
There are times when I am tempted to just bring them all down to Skobieville to a sleazy pub and flog ’em.
I’d make a fortune.