Them's the Breaks

I spent half an hour at our local chemist the other morning, waiting for a prescription to be filled. I didn't realise it but the morning is a bad time at the chemist, now that it's become a methadone dispensary as well as a shop.

The bulk of the clients for this new service turn up around 10 a.m. (roughly the same time, coincidentally, that the telephones began to ring when I worked at social security - we imagined the beneficiaries [or 'benos' as we thoughtlessly referred to them, in what I now try to persuade myself was our appalling ignorance and prejudice], staggering from their beds, brewing up their cups of tea, lighting their fags, propping their fluffy-slippered feet on the kitchen table and thinking, 'What am I going to do now? I know, I'll ring those buggers at social security and see if I can hassle a counter cheque out of them'.

The  methadone recipients know better than to try to hassle anything out of anyone. They look as if they've done enough hassling to last a very long time. They shuffle in and form a meek queue along the lefthand wall of the pharmacy. I can't honestly say it's a cheering sight. I suppose though it might be possible to regard it as educational. You couldn't look at that straggling collection of defeated human beings without noticing that their addictions have done them very little long-term good.

All of them have seen better days - at least I hope they have; I'd hate to think this is as good as it's ever got for them. Their complexions are grey, brightened only by a livid scar or two, a rash or sometimes a weeping sore. They move stiffly, some limp, they all carry themselves as if something - physical or mental - is broken inside them. Their general demeanour suggests that they are veterans of some terrible struggle that is still continuing and which they are unlikely to win.

The question remains though - is it the drugs that have caused all this damage or is it their illegality? Is it what they've taken or what they've done to get the things they like to take? I don't know the answers to those questions. The only conclusion that I can draw with any certainty is that illegal drugs are clearly dangerous.

But then again, so is life. I was reminded of this as I waited for my own medicine and listened to the two old ladies (not part of the methadone crowd) who sat at the table the staff provide for customers they can't serve straight away.

One of the women was there when I entered; the other arrived after me. The first woman greeted her friend warmly. 'How was the trip to Mittagong?' she asked,  as the second woman settled into her seat.

The newcomer winced and grimaced in reply. 'I didn't go in the end,' she said, 'I wasn't up to it. I gave my ticket to Ethel - she's my new neighbour, in the unit where Marigold was, until ...' Her voice trailed off without the sentence being finished.

'She must have been pleased,' her friend remarked quickly. 'That was a really friendly gesture. What a kind thing to do.' 'Well I don't know if it was,' the second old lady said gloomily, 'I feel a bit guilty about it now as a matter of fact.' She shifted uneasily in her seat as she talked on.

'The trouble is, you see, when they were getting out at Mittagong, Ethel fell down the steps of the coach. She's up there still - in the Bowral hospital. She smashed her hip, fractured her shoulder and broke both of her arms.'