or the perils of getting it wrong...
I had waded into the upper reaches of the Whangaparaoa Plaza, bravely battling to overcome the treacherous conditions of our local shopping mall, in order to make it to the local chemist. I had earlier phoned the pharmacist and requested some more medicinal supplies.
The route was torturous, and I hesitantly pushed on through, past the displays of Clarins, foot pumices, and reading glasses. The rustling of paper bags and receipts lifted my spirits as I neared the counter....
The supplies were already waiting for me to collect and the young assistant smiled and made polite small talk....blah, blah. Naturally I was forthcoming in praise for their recognition skills, and continued to purr and smile like an extremely contented Cheshire Cat.
My purr was stifled and grin evaporated as my address was checked....it was completely wrong!
I gave my previous address in case my doctor had used an old one....
But no, that too was erroneous.
The peered at me, as if examining a particularly odd specimen, and then looked at each other in confusion, until the answer dawned on them. I was not the person they had presumed I was.
Wearing by now looks of chagrin, the staff rushed off behind the counter and soon returened with an identical bulky paper bag, presumably with my drugs conatined within.
They double checked my address with my ID, and satisfied that I was indeed myself as labelled, handed me the bag.
The Cheshire Cat returned, grinning inanely and apologising for the inconvenience (how self deprecatingly British of me), and we parted with no hard feelings.
I presume they won't do that again.
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