Not our fault

To say I've been messed about today is an understatement. All I've been trying to do is to get hold of my next batch of medications, but it's turned out to be more difficult than finding the Golden Fleece. I ordered my repeat prescription in 'domicile-ville' Boots (a ubiquitous pharmacy chain over here, for the benefit of my non-UK readers) over a week ago. I tried to pick it up on Monday, but was told it hadn't arrived yet. I went back this morning, to be told that they still didn't have it. After ringing my GP's surgery, they claimed that I'd collected it from there. When I told them I hadn't been near the place, they claimed someone else had collected it on my behalf. When I told them there was no-one in the area who even knows me, they claimed that I'd filled the form in incorrectly, even though one of their staff had checked it. The immediate upshot was that I traipsed up to my doctor's, where their record book, which I saw, clearly showed that my prescription had been one of a batch signed for by Boots' driver. In other words, Boots had lost my meds. The surgery issued me a new prescription, which I took into a different Boots branch an hour or so ago, where they promptly refused to have anything to do with it, because it ran to three pages, of which only two had been signed by the doctor. So I'm now going to have to go back to the doctor's again in the morning to satisfy the fucking jobsworths. The only consolation is that I'm now sitting in a nice pub in West London drinking some nice beer - Staropramen to be exact - and, until a few minutes ago, there was a gorgeous boy sitting about fifteen feet away. He's gone now, as has any prospect of my ever setting foot in any branch of Boots again, except in the case of dire emergency.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B