There was an old lady who swallowed a fly

Perhaps she'll die

A couple of weeks ago, I had to go to my local chemist to pick up my son’s melatonin. This was the third visit for the same prescription. The first time, my son went in and they said he hadn’t requested it correctly. He went away and re-requested it. The second time, I went to pick it up and they told me that I couldn’t collect it because the GP surgery had told them that my son was no longer registered with them, so they couldn't fill it. I went away and spoke to the surgery who denied any such thing and promised me faithfully that the third time would be the charm.

I believe in shopping local and supporting independent business. When the GP surgery asked me to nominate a pharmacy to send my prescriptions to I deliberately shunned the Asda and Boots pharmacy nearby, to plump for the small business on my local high street. It galls me that I have regretted that choice ever since. The actual dispensing pharmacist takes the longest and most erratic lunch breaks in the entire Greater London area. The staff have a median age of twelve, cannot look you in the eye and spend their days scuttling around holding empty, plastic baskets in an attempt to look busy enough to not have to deal with you and I have never managed to go in for something I needed and come out with it in a single visit.

I skidded in on a puddle of sweat on one of the hottest days of the year to date with very little time to spare and was not the first in the queue. My heart sank. One gentleman seemed to be having a lovely, long chat with the pharmacist and a basket clutching minion. In front of me was a woman, ferociously tapping her foot and making louder and louder ‘TSK’ noises. She had the angriest spine of any person I’ve ever seen in my life.

Once the person in front of her had been dealt with, Mrs Spine rocked up to the counter, behind which cowered a nervous girl who seemed fascinated by a spot on the floor. She flicked her eyes up into the stony face of Mrs Spine and said in the smallest voice available to a human being:

‘howareyoutoday?’

Mrs. Spine: ‘HOW AM I TODAY? I’M NOT GOOD. I’M NOT GOOD AT ALL ACTUALLY.’

Nervous Girl: ‘oh?’

Mrs. Spine slams down an aerosol canister on the counter, takes a step back from it and points at it with a quivering finger.

‘DO YOU SEE THIS?’

Nervous girl flicks a wary eye up from the floor and nods imperceptibly.

Mrs Spine: ‘MY HUSBAND CAME INTO THIS SHOP THIS MORNING AND BOUGHT THIS FLY SPRAY AND IT. DOES. NOT. WORK! HE HAD TO BUY IT FOR MY ELDERLY MOTHER WHO IS SITTING AT HOME COVERED IN FLIES. SHE. IS. COVERED. IN. FLIES. AND THIS DOES NOT WORK. IT ISN’T SAFE FOR HER TO BE COVERED IN FLIES. IT’S UNHYGIENIC. I HAVE HAD TO LEAVE HER ON HER OWN WITH THE FLIES TO COME HERE AND IT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I WANT MY MONEY BACK.’

Nervous girl does a sort of crouching bob, rather like a curtsey and flees the scene, saying nothing.

Mrs. Spine starts TSKing again.

A slightly more confident young man arrives behind the till and Mrs. Spine continues the story with embellishments.

‘LOOK AT THIS! IT’S USELESS. HERE. TAKE THE CAP OFF. LOOK. HAVE A GO. IT DOESN’T WORK AND MY ELDERLY MOTHER IS COVERED IN FLIES. I WANT MY MONEY BACK.’

The young man starts mumbling into his nipples. The only words which are actually coherent are ‘no refund,’ which come across loud and clear.

Mrs. Spine: ‘NO REFUND? NO REFUND? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO REFUND?’

The young man does some more inarticulate mumbling and then points at a small, laminated sign above the till.

Mrs. Spine starts to read:

‘WE DO NOT GIVE REFUNDS ON MEDICATIONS AND BEAUTY PRODUCTS FOR REASONS OF HEALTH AND SAFETY? HEALTH? AND? SAFETY? WHATAREYOUTALKINGABOUT? SEE THIS? IT ISN’T MEDICINE. I CAN’T GIVE IT TO MY MOTHER LIKE MEDICINE. DO YOU THINK I AM MAD? THAT WOULD BE DANGEROUS. IT WOULD KILL HER. I DON’T WANT HER TO EAT IT. IT. IS. FLY. SPRAY. GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK. HEALTH AND SAFETY! IT’S NOT A BEAUTY PRODUCT. WHILE I AM ARGUING WITH YOU, MY MOTHER IS AT HOME COVERED IN FLIES.’

At this point she is vibrating with rage. I have ‘There was an old woman who swallowed a fly,’ as a terrible ear worm and am trying valiantly not to laugh. I am thinking that even though she isn’t going to dose her mother up with the non-functioning fly spray, she seems intent on spraying it all over her fly strewn body, which is surely just as dangerous? Regardless, I know that if I make any sudden movement at all, I will cop it from Mrs. Spine and the next thing you know the shop will be trashed and we will all be held up for hours filling out police reports. She is a woman on the brink. I do not want to be the one to send her over it. I look fiercely at a row of dusty vitamins in the hope of calming myself down.

The young man’s hair is now flying back in the wind emanating from her righteous wrath and after a feeble attempt to point at the card above the till again, he gives up and leaves.

There is an ominous humming in the silence that follows. It feels like that moment in a Western when the gun slinger comes through the swing doors, just before all hell breaks loose. I no longer care about Oscar’s melatonin or being late. I have never felt so alive.

The shop manager appears. He has the air of Rishi Sunak about to come up for Prime Minister’s Question Time. He is cocky and assured, but 95% piss and wind. Mrs. Spine is having none of it.

‘THAT MAN SAID THAT I CAN’T HAVE A REFUND FOR THIS FLY SPRAY THAT MY HUSBAND BOUGHT FROM YOU THIS MORNING. IT DOESN’T WORK. MY ELDERLY MOTHER IS COVERED IN FLIES. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?’

For a moment he thinks about taking up arms against her. You can see the moment he realises that it really isn’t worth the damage she will undoubtedly do to him and his shop. He smiles ingratiatingly, and says:

‘Do you want your refund on a card madam?’

Mrs. Spine: ‘NO. I WANT IT IN CASH.’

She holds out her hand and he solemnly counts £1.75 into her outstretched palm.

She turns her back on him and shows him the full ferocity of her furious spine. I genuinely think this is a scarier view than her front, and I should know because I’ve been looking at it for some time now.

She pushes her way out the door, muttering very loudly to herself about health and safety.

I was left behind to finally collect my melatonin and wonder what would happen to her elderly, fly ridden mother now? Perhaps a giant fly swatter will be employed. Perhaps it was all too late by the time she got back and found her mother, squashed under the weight of a full beard of flies.

I attempted to draw a funny sketch of an old lady with a full beard of flies, but when I finished it I realised it was far more troubling than I had intended when I set out. It still makes me laugh, but not for the reasons I wanted. It looks like a mournful, cautionary tale, which of course is exactly what this story is, so I decided to add it to the story anyway.