Blonde Colleague and Grotbags approach, returning from their lunchtime adventures.
Grotbags: [By way of a ‘hello’] Fuckin HELL, man.
Blonde Colleague: Mental in Boots. The pharmacist. Radge-packets all over the place – coppers an’all.
I feel a bit short-changed. I’ve peacefully eaten my home-made ribollita in the canteen without incident.
B.C: About half a dozen, they had to get this massive copper in to supervise the whole thing while they picked-up their prescriptions.
Me: Not antihistamines I take it?
Grotbags: You’re a twat you sometimes.
B.C: And like he knew them ALL by name. And they all knew each other and they’re all like “how man, been in trouble?” and like “naw man have I fuck, just here for my stuff, will they hurry up I need to be in court in twenty minutes like” and asking the copper if he’ll watch for their prescriptions whilst they go to the toilet and that. There’s not even a toilet in Boots!
Grotbags: Aye. And the copper’s like “you’re not going to any toilet whilst I’m watching son”.
Have I mentioned how much I love this city? And simultaneously hate it?
B.C: Aye and it looked like an advert for J.D.Sports but with scag-heads. And frightened old women.
Grant From Work has joined us during this and observes the whole exchange with his usual impassive expression.
Grant From Work: So they give the scag-heads their methadone ‘scripts all at the same time? And they all rush to cash them in ‘en-masse’?
I want to give Grant From Work ‘props’ for using the phrase ‘scripts’ but am not sure what ‘props’ actually means.
Grotbags: ‘Spose. It was scaring the shit out of the old dears in there for their anti-inflammatories.
I check the date and time on my watch. Grant From Work notices this.
Grant From Work: [deadpan] Next week?
Me: See you there.