Day Sixteen

I hurried out of the house not a second too soon to catch my train, only to realise that it was Monday and the money I had withdrawn to buy this week's train ticket had been spent on wedges last night.

I was late for work, but it was a quiet morning and I wasn't missed. The young man from Red Mango who's crushing on me served me a big cup of mocha for $1.20.

Nothing remarkable happened today, except for painstakingly preparing a Webster pack from a trillion blurry faxed scripts for a man who incredulously has compliance troubles even when his daily doses are pre-packaged for him in little blisters. There was some major confusion concerning his Diaformin, which came under three sets of different instructions - 80 mg once a day from the original script; 30 mg once a day from the repeat; and 30 mg twice a day from the faxed Webster schedule.

I also handed out about 4 packs of Postinor. After the last girl walked away I opened my mouth to have a whinge about how irresponsible it was for girls to have unprotected sex and then eat the morning after pill like candy, then closed it.

I didn't have lunch. At the moment everything fails to tempt me, except perhaps Hurricanes ribs and Bangkok Boardwalk rice paper rolls. Neither were available.

In the afternoon Eric brought us a big bowl of chocolate mousse. It was even better than last time, though the most we could manage was about a tablespoonful each. It was too rich.

Some time during morning John complained of a sore neck.

Are you any good at massages? He asked.

I'm okay. I said. I have massaged a total of three people, and each of them told me I was good at it purely out of love. So really, I have no idea whether I made them feel good or left them half-crippled.

So anyway, John asked me for a massage. I wasn't comfortable touching him, and it was hard to shake off the memories of the the last few massages I gave which all ended in sex. I asked him why his neck hurt. He said old age. I said I couldn't help him then.

And then it felt awkward for the rest of the day.

I never know what to say when people give me compliments. Men usually do it with their eyes so I can at least pretend to not notice. Women are more vocal. This afternoon a woman came in with a script, took one look at me, and launched into how gorgeous I was. She said I looked like a china doll. John has also been calling me that lately, and I suspect I might be extra pasty without make-up. Mirjana joined in and I ran off into the dispensary to take as long as I could fetching the woman's box of Karvea.

In the end I just ignore it, and stand there smiling like an idiot. What else can you do.