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The pharmaceutical treasure chest

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Every self-respecting French household has one.
And Nana’s is no exception.

My memory of France is that people truly have a passion for “les médicaments” and while most villages have lost their butchers, bakers or cafes, la pharmacie is the last local commerce to have resisted the onslaught of the concentration of consumerism (mostly to soulless zones commerciales outside of towns).
No, the pharmacy lives on. It’s welcoming green cross easily identifiable from a distance.
A temple dedicated to the cult of les médicaments.
Pharmacies even have their own smell.

The smell of sterilisation and reassurance.

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That awkward moment

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when your boss suddenly appears, as you catch the last few rays of the Great Summer of 2013 during your lunch break… 

Not as embarrassing as bumping into the principal of your kids’ school, topless on the beach in Barcelona. But almost. 

It was a wise move for this sun worshiper to indulge in a last spot of binge-tanning (the sun exposure equivalent of gulping 9 pints of cider outside the Barge Pub between 8 pm and midnight) because the Great Summer of 2013 is now defunct. 
I hope that he remembers to apply generous lashings of after-sun cream (the sun exposure equivalent of a visit to Abrakebabra after the 9 pints in the barge) or he could feel each grain of sand on his bed sheet tonight, burn through his tender freshly irradiated skin like dozens of vengeful little laser rays (the sun exposure equivalent of a raging hangover after the 9 pints in the Barge and the cold half-eaten kebab found in the side pocket of his Bermuda shorts in the morning)

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