Is it just me? Or does anyone else have arguments in their head?

Last week one of my prescriptions was out of date when I handed it over at the chemists. I’ve been going there for the same medication for five years but because this script was an insy-bit out of date and I had to go see my doctor to get a new one.

“Really?” I said. Leaning back slightly as if the shock of such news had blasted my upper torso into a new shape, kinda like a backwards question mark as it happens. I muttered obscenities under my breath, not directed at the woman serving me of course. Just to the air around her. I left the shop still cussing with vigor, not too loudly, but enough for people to nod in agreement on the nature of my unfulfilled prescription.

Later that day while I was pegging clothes on the Hills Hoist war broke out between my ears.

“I detest bureaucracy, you – Chemist Woman. I demand my script now.”

“I’m sorry Mrs Swearing but I cannot do that. We have procedures to follow.”

“Do you realise if I go without this script I will (a) vomit on you, (b) run around knocking everything off the carefully stacked shelves, or (c) put two fingers up to my eye, line up your head between them and squeeze the air. (This always gets them).

“All the same you have to have a current script, Swearing Woman.”

I snatch my useless script back from her claws and point in a jabbing motion. “You, you Chemist Woman have no compassion. Good day!”

With that I would swivel and leave the shop swinging my arms in a sawing motion.

THE END

It is just me. Isn’t it.

Sometimes I have the arguments I should have had ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. I’m re-playing the scene when a boss was overbearing, a friend of a friend looked down her nose at me or when my sister refused to play Monopoly in 1974. Well, that was a bit more than twenty years ago.

I become another person. My voice takes on the persona of a queen, a duchess or when things get a little heated, a villain from an Enid Blyton story (working class, smoking and wearing trousers). I am always victorious. It’s always me who leaves the scene with the last word. A witty reply which has men in wigs covering their mouths with silk handkerchiefs. My head is held high in the manner of Marie Antoinette, Princess Anne or even Edina Monsoon, without the terrible dress sense.

I popped back into the chemist the following day with a suitable prescription. Chemist Woman stood next to me while I checked out the ‘buy 2 get 1 free offer’ on nail varnishes. And I muttered quietly, “I’m ever so sorry about yesterday.”

Chemist Woman smiles, was there a glint of triumph in her eyes? “That’s alright.” She nods sagely, smiles knowingly.

But when she’d run of ear-drops this morning I swear I heard a tremble in her voice as she told me they were out until this afternoon’s delivery. “That’s okay.” I tittered musically. “I’ll come back then.” A quick smile, a raised eyebrow then I sashayed from the store.

Always leave them wanting more.