By Laura Hutchinson
FOR seven years, I have worked in Boots. First, it was to put myself through college and pay my rent in Dublin. Then it was to supplement my income while I got my legal career up and running. Now it’s just a nuisance that I haven’t had the heart to leave, always thinking of some future expense which seemed to justify having a second job and working seven days a week. But, by the time you read this, I will have finished up for good. It’ll be all fond memories and farewells, and trying to re-adjust my budget to take into consideration the loss of the extra, not-insignificant wage.
Obviously, I’ve met some great people – and some horrors – over the years, between staff and customers. I’ve helped many people and been rude to a fair share too. (To avoid getting short shrift, readers, I strongly suggest you refrain from wandering into your local chemist and asking for “that thing that was advertised on the telly last night”.) I’ve felt exhilarated and exhausted by the whole experience, and will take away from it a wealth of knowledge and a weary, but relieved, heart.
Apart from lifting a great burden from me, leaving Boots will also lift something else: what is, essentially, a gagging order. Working for Boots means signing security rules that basically forbid you from talking about the company or its customers, and that includes anything said online, whether the online content is available to the public or not. Newly unfettered from this (or, at least, I will be by the time this is published), I feel it my duty to share one of my most memorable moments with the company and, on a personal level, possibly the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.
Working in a pharmacy inevitably means that you’ll have to deal with some rather unusual problems and some red-faced customers. And you must be absolutely helpful, professional and discreet at all times. So when an elderly lady came into the store a few months ago and asked to speak to a female member of staff, I slipped on my professional persona and offered to help her with whatever “woman’s problem” she may have been encountering.
“I’m very dry”, she whispered. Grand. Not a bother. Vaginal dryness. I could deal with that. Without a moment’s hesitation, I assured her I had just the product to help, and led her over to the family planning section where we kept the lubricant. She looked very uncertain, so I assured her that she was suffering from a very common problem and that our KY Jelly was a very popular product. Seeming somewhat reassured, she started reading the back of the box.
I was trying to stop the flush in my cheeks and the fluster in my speech when suddenly, spotting something odd on the box, she looked up at me and said, “Condoms?” Oh dear. How could I explain to this old woman that sometimes lubricant is used for reasons other than just to moisturise? “Well, when a man and woman love each other very much...” just wasn’t going to cut it.
I stuttered and stumbled over my words for several seconds, getting more and more tongue-tied. When she opened her mouth to speak again, I hoped and prayed that it was to say something to take me out of my misery. I hoped she would assure me that she understood and there was no need to explain, that she’d just pay and be gone. I hoped, I hoped. Instead, I got, “Are you sure this is a face cream?”
So goodbye, Boots. You’ve taught me many things but, most importantly, you’ve taught me never to make assumptions. You’ve taught me to do the research, ask the questions. And I pass that lesson on to you, dear readers. The next time you’re about to assume something, just picture that poor old woman slathering lubricant all over her face and think again. You’re welcome.