|  Twice, before closing the pharmacy, I trudged out to empty the waste-paper
baskets into the wheelie-bin in the yard. I realised, on the second visit,
that my footprints in the snow, formed just three minutes before, had already
disappeared under a fresh coating of snow. It was then I became aware that
this was no gentle snowfall. As I gingerly drove home, I wondered why I
had chosen a profession that demands we get to work on time, irrespective
of personal health or the state of the roads, and thought back to some
past conditions.
Older readers might recall the winter of 1962/63 when heavy snow fell on
New Year’s Eve and the air temperature did not rise above freezing
until mid-March. As a result, even main roads became practically impassable
for three months and, as a medical representative in those days, I rapidly
(as did all the survivors) became an expert at handling a car on snow-
and ice-bound roads. I believe I was the only rep who did not damage his
company car during that winter, though more by luck than judgement. In
favour of an
unscathed car, admittedly, was the fact that hedges and verges were permanently
coated in a thick tunic of snow obviating scratches to the paintwork whenever
the vehicle slid off the road — one day it happened to me four times
in one three-mile stretch of country road. On another occasion, I inadvisedly
chose a short cut between two main roads and proceeded with wheels in ruts
created by a tractor, frozen snow rubbing against the sump throughout.
Half way along, I visualised ending my journey (and possibly career) in
a farmyard! Some 20 or 30 yards behind me a fellow intrepid motorist had,
clearly, come to the same conclusion because I could see him roaring with
laughter as, indeed, was I. Fortunately, for both of us, the tractor’s
tracks emerged on a partially cleared main road.
Sacks and spades
Shortly after, I stayed at a hotel in Abingdon, which I used as a home
base when travelling in the wilds of north Berkshire. One morning, I
set off for Wallingford, following closely behind a snow plough. Only
20 yards behind me the road was again totally blocked, not by fresh falling
snow (there was not a cloud in the sky), but by latent snow blowing off
the Chilterns. After one call I decided to take the next snow plough
out of town and was,
apparently, the last vehicle to leave for six weeks — the authorities
decided no longer to attempt to keep one road open and, thereafter, supplies
were flown in by helicopter. I wonder, now, how the local pharmacists managed
to maintain their service.
There were compensations, however. Traffic congestion was nil and a unique
fellowship of the road existed. We all carried sacks and spades and there
was always someone to help you out of the ditch into which you had helplessly
slid. And no one minded if you visited wearing the ubiquitous wellington
boots and the most unprofessional overcoat, muffler and woolly hat. For
a young man, on the threshold of a career, it was all great fun — even
in an E-type Anglia with a hopeless heater that required a lit paraffin-heater
under the engine block every night to ensure a start in the mornings. Camaraderie
In another Berkshire town, the Council
decided not to waste money on street clearing services, and frozen snow,
a foot deep, blocked even main roads. The only answer was to park on
the outskirts and walk. One GP claimed I was the first person he had seen
in
his surgery for weeks and was glad to have a chat. The GP lived at the
foot of a steep hill. While I had managed to manoeuvre the car down the
hill, there was absolutely no chance of getting it back up unaided. But
such was the camaraderie of the country at that time that the GP, his
wife and half a dozen neighbours banded together to get me on my way. I
wove
sideways up the steep slope, waving back out of the open window as they
all cheered me on my way. Would that happen today?
In later years, when I owned my own pharmacy, I was, again, faced with
the prospect of getting to work when all my friends and neighbours had
telephoned their offices to notify their absence.
Why was I the only one who had to get to work — and on time? The
pharmacy was only about four miles away, but getting there consisted entirely
of a cross-country journey along narrow lanes, which would be the last
to be gritted by the authorities. I am proud to say that the only occasion
I was late opening the shop (and only by two minutes) was
because of a snow-plough bogged down in a drift, completely blocking the
road and
necessitating an alternative, longer route.
The same country road presented a problem on another occasion. One morning
I got out of my car to examine a huge bank of snow, some five feet high,
completely blocking the route. On the far side an equally perplexed motorist
also stood contemplating the prospects. Meanwhile, two cars drew up
behind me and we all considered the options. There is a lot to be said
for an old and rather battered Volvo Estate. Having persuaded the others
to back up some distance in both directions, I reversed about 20 yards,
put my car into bottom gear, and charged. The Volvo flew through the
drift, sideways, in a whirl of snow and ice and behold, the road was
open again.
And, having reached the pharmacy, what then? While most of our premises
are, these days, warm and well-lit, there were (and still are) exceptions.
How many dispensaries are still heated by evil-smelling paraffin or calor-gas
contraptions? I once owned a pharmacy warmed by an enormous gas-boiler.
This thumped away until it reached a crescendo, at which point a brave
member of staff would race to switch it off before it exploded.
A few proprietors, conscious, no doubt, of their fuel bills, are positively
parsimonious with regard to the comfort of their staff. On one dreadful
occasion, not many years back, not only was no heating allowed in the
shop where I worked as a locum during the coldest winter snap but the
owner’s
wife insisted that the shop door remain open throughout “in case
a customer thinks we are closed”. With the staff working in overcoats
and gloves, and having examined the chilblains on one poor girl’s
hands, I had had enough. Finding the ambient temperature to be 48F, I notified
the local health authority, which subsequently condemned the conditions.
Were weather extremes worse in those days? In the south-east, at least,
we do not seem to experience the abominable conditions of yesteryear,
whether global warming is a fait accompli or not. No doubt those who
practise in
the most rural and exposed areas of the country will find my experiences
commonplace, but this was semi-rural, gentle Surrey! Just how much effort
should pharmacists make to ensure their excellent service continues?
I suppose if it is your livelihood you have no option. |
The
Pharmaceutical Journal