I AM trying not to look guilty. Deep breaths. I tell myself I’ve done nothing wrong. What I’m doing is perfectly legal. Normal. Even so, I’m sweating.

From bitter experience, I know I’ll be subjected to a lengthy and detailed interrogation, my motivation will be questioned and my integrity as a law-abiding, upstanding citizen will be put under the microscope.

But, like they say, if you’re not guilty you have nothing to fear from the authorities.

Why does a visit to my pharmacist strike dread into my heart? What used to be a quick, simple transaction is now an endurance test. It is a series of challenging questions and a lengthy one-sided dissertation under cold, white fluorescent lights. Bone density can plummet in the time your average punter spends acquiring the simplest of over-the-counter medications.

“Is it for yourself?” the baby pharmacist asks. It’s always the young of the pharmacist species, fresh out of university, who are the most assiduous about the pharmaceutical probe procedure.

I could correct her grammar (“Don’t you mean, is it for you?”) but I don’t want to antagonise her. After all, she’s the one with the key to the drug cabinet. I consider making up an answer: No, it’s for my psychotic aunt, who’s got a list of drug convictions as long as your qualifications. Pharmacists aren’t the most humorous of folk. I come clean. “Yes,” I stammer, averting my eyes. “It’s for me.”

She’s staring at me. “Are you taking any other medication?” I know the answer to this question and I confidently reply: “No.” She stares even harder. Clearly she doesn’t believe me. She’s thinking: “Surely someone your age and shape must be on some kind of medication?”

I stand my ground, feeling somewhat of an underachiever in the blood pressure, diabetes and depression departments.

She stares at me some more, as the perspiration snakes down the back of my shirt. Think. Perhaps I am taking a drug I’ve forgotten about … for, I dunno, dementia maybe?

Have I taken this medication before? I panic. Should I tell the truth? “Yes” might signal some kind of addiction. But if I lie, they have me on their records. Damn those databases. I opt for a vague, but truthful, “yes, well, sometimes. Not often, actually. I really only take it …”.

Miss Pharmacist then proceeds to enumerate the pitfalls of this particular remedy, a litany of rules and disclaimers I’ve heard so often I could recite by heart. Yeah, yeah. Don’t take it with alcohol. Don’t drive front-end loaders while using it. Discontinue after three days, blah blah.

After an eon of gruelling questioning, without being offered legal counsel or a glass of water, my drug is dispensed. But not before I’ve handed over my driver’s licence, my bank statements and my sanity.

Almost hysterical with relief, I grasp the bag containing my nasal decongestant spray and sprint through the doors before the surveillance camera can capture my triumphant grin.

Sue Wighton is a Brisbane freelance writer

suewighton@gmail.com