Why chemists are a great indicator of human pain

There’s nothing like a trip to the local chemist to understand how much physical pain is being endured by your fellow citizens. There are the painkiller tablets, of course; then the pain-relieving ointments for topical application; then the selection of elasticised supports for various misbehaving body parts. Really, it is a miracle humanity manages to get out of bed in the morning.

Up to a certain age, providing you are lucky enough to have normal health, you hardly notice this stuff. The accoutrements of ageing slide past your youthful eye. At 18 or 19, it’s all a blur. A visit to the chemist means condoms, a packet of birth control pills or, if you’ve turned over a new leaf, some nicotine patches.

Sure, you might throw in a packet of barley sugar drops, but only so you can hide the condoms while waiting at the counter. After all, Mrs Kerfoops might spot you.

A decade-and-a-half later, you’re in your 30s and it’s all changed. A visit to the chemist now means nappy rash cream and a bottle of Phenergan (for you, not the toddler). You might throw in some Napisan and a packet of wet wipes, but only if you’re in a festive mood.

Then, in your 40s, you start creeping deeper into the store. The world of soccer, or netball, or rugby, still needs you – well, that’s your delusion – even if your continued participation means a visit to the chemist each Monday morning, thence to invest in some support hosiery, a different limb added to the list with each passing week. By the end of the season you’ll be like a World War One soldier, trussed up after six months in the trenches.

Next, you’ve suddenly turned 50 and are back at the chemist, but this time to invest in some earplugs to counteract your partner’s snoring. You might also purchase some Radox to assist in the hot baths that have now replaced your sex life. Truly, all seven ages of humanity are reflected in these humble shelves.

There are pills for heartburn, drops for dry eyes, and sprays for all manner of malfunctions, from tinea to tinnitus.

Still, it’s only later, in your 60s and 70s, that you suddenly see the local chemist for what it is: a House of Pain.

The headache tablets, you now realise, fill a whole aisle, with various spurious promises. Everything is “dual action” or “rapid” or “extra”. These are products whose sales pitch is borrowed from Jerry Seinfeld: “Give me the maximum allowable human dosage. Figure out what will kill me and then back it off a little bit.”