Sunday 4th September

The town is deserted, it is mid-morning and hot and no-one is around.  An occasional car slowly prowls the streets but soon wanders off prey-less.  I am on an errand, I have to go to the Pharmacie for some eye-drops for my wife.  The automatic doors slide open as I approach, and there everyone is; the Pharmacie is full of people, almost all French but a smattering of English too.  The French absolutely love their Pharmacies.  Unlike most shops they are clean and well-lit with often a green flashing cross in neon outside – they are obviously the most profitable shops in town.

They are full of lotions and potions, powders and ointments, row upon row of treatments for every condition imaginable, and some even I haven’t dared to think existed.  Beauty treatments take up a whole wall; there are creams for every part of the body and sprays and drops without number.

And the whole shop is full of women; it seems that most French women spend all their time and most of their money in the Pharmacie.  Many have younger girls with them; obviously indoctrinating them in the mysterious world of medication and treatments for ills both imaginary and real.

I only ever go to the Pharmacie for one product; Icyclovir for my cold sores – and am shocked each time at how expensive a tiny pump action tube costs.  But I stand in line and wait behind French women, some actually walking out with carrier-bags full of stuff, discussing their ailments seriously with the white tunic-ed smart women serving and dispensing equal amounts of wisdom and ointments.  It seems that looking after the body, both internally and externally is of the utmost importance for French women, while in the bars extremely unhealthy looking French men sip Pastis and smoke cigarettes and buy lottery tickets and watch sport on the TV.  A strange world.