Wind Doth Blow

At the Chemist

Hurtling across from the Tasman Sea over the dark grey bay and up into the shops, a cold wind blew the shop awnings into a type of rattle song. Opposite the pub, the local community pharmacist Blooms, the chemist, shone like a lighthouse on the bay road. Blooms' bright white light beckoned shoppers to leave the darkness and enter its safe medical heaven, a place where all things were seen clearly. Here nothing out was out of place. The floor sparkled shiny as an advertisement for Ajax. Each product row sat where it always did—the vitamins on the right, starting with the red-banded ones and then moving on to the less well-known ones. All your daily nuisance ailments popped up with signs saying 'no need to suffer anymore. This shop was confident they could help you with sleep apnoea, puffy eyelids, constipation, a sore neck, diabetes, and even mental illness. The good looking, white-coated team moved through prescriptions quickly and efficiently. Names were called out, and doses were explained using a system for checking and cross-checking. Blooms were, one poster explained 'evidence-based', and staff were up to date with their research. Several plaques acknowledged the owner's status in the community 'Award for best presentation' 'Gold band supporter of the life-saving surf club'. On the other side of the clean glass automatic doors, passers-by tried to ignore old Murphy's shouts of obscenity. 'Stay away ya fucking bitch’, he threatened a middle-aged woman in a well-cut camel hair coat. Intermittently, people tripped over his blankets and sleeping bag pile as they entered. On top of his mountain of stuff, a picnic basket held a stash of health bars that looked like the ones they sold inside. The smell of his urine mingled with that of his bottle of 'black magic' perfume. Still, people covered their noses with hankies and scarves as they passed him.
As the owner chemist walked in, Murphy tailgated him inside. Paul Sharman, or Shaman as some jokingly called him, looked up and cleared his throat. 'Murph, what's wrong?'
'It's this wind. It's buggering up everything, no money for days!' Paul cajoled, 'But Murph wind is an act of God. Now, how about I call the Salvos, so we get you out of the wind tonight'. And sure enough, to help prove his point at that moment, a gust of wind twirled up the street and blew a collection of empty checked plastic bags over the road to the Tropicana café.
But Murph was desperate. 'So you mean there is nothing you can do about the wind!' And with that, Murph farted loud and clear. And the air conditioning blew his wind over the sparkling shelves and into the nostrils of those at the counter.
Sharman the Shaman laughed and threw Murph a packet of Degas 'on the house mate!' which just goes to show 'It is indeed an ill wind that blows no good.'