Laced around my ankles (1)

 ONE

I suppose it all comes down to the seductive shoes I was wearing that night. They were Italian and very red. I’d bought them about a week before in an equally seductive side street, in a Chianti town, whilst nannying.

That particular July day had been hot, repressive. I had awoken myself with a jolt to the neck. The kind that makes a loud cracking sound and results in spending the next fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to lift your head off the pillow. The children had been difficult all morning. Their Dad was on hand to relieve me, as was ibuprofen, but neither were being too clever.

After lunch it became apparent that I was going to need something stronger. Tears welled as I attempted to explain my symptoms in broken English to the dark eyed pharmacist. Luckily the fact that both of us were limited in one another’s language, did not hinder the situation – anyone looking at my lop-sided yet erect stance could immediately tell I had well and truly fucked my neck.

Turning my whole body to look his way, he approached with a strip of large capsules. Oh God no, I thought. Not suppositories for this surely? Thankfully, these were to be taken orally: one every eight hours. He was intent on making it clear to me that they were strong. But still I looked at him and asked rather pathetically, “Two?”

“No, only one,” came the fatherly reply. 
“Oh but two, please,” said I, a tear breaking over the lower lid.

This obviously had tremendous effect and appealed to the pharmacist’s emotional side. His anima didn’t need to hear anymore and he gently motioned, “Ok, two, but after that one, every eight hours.” 
“Fine,” said I. With thanks I took the medicine, paid and left; of course I didn’t look back, instead I went to a bar in the square, sat in the sunshine and proceeded to take two potent painkillers with a carafe of wine.