The Advantages Of Living In A Small Town

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Last Thursday I noticed that I had been negligent concerning my medication. I didn’t have enough tablets left to get through the weekend. I went to a pharmacy downtown where a pharmacist works who was a pupil of mine during her teen years. I showed her the plan the physician had printed for me. It wasn’t a prescription but she saw what I needed. She gave me some of the tablets and told me to come back the following day. She would order the rest and I would be able to get them then. She also told me to bring the prescription with the physician’s signature ASAP - which was on Monday because of the weekend. The physician in question doesn’t work on Friday afternoon. I went to the pharmacy on Friday and got what I needed. I had already paid for everything the day before so I didn’t notice at once that I had left my wallet at home. I noticed it only when I put the medicine into my handbag. I wanted to eat something in town and also buy some provisions. What now? My bank is in the town centre. Ha, I was saved! I was sure the bank clerks would help me even though I had no credit card or card of identity with me. They’ve known me for years. I went there only to learn that they close during lunch time. That’s a small town for you! I couldn’t take money out of a cash machine because one needs one’s credit card for this operation and my credit card is in my wallet and my wallet was at home. Hmm, I had another “What now?” moment. I didn’t want to walk home, fetch my wallet and return back to the centre although one way is only 15 minutes. I decided to waylay the first acquaintance or friend I’d meet. Fate let a former colleague cross my way. I told him about my predicament and he lent me 50 Euro. I went to the fish restaurant where I had planned to eat, bought some things in a supermarket, had a cup of coffee in an Italian coffee bar and then called a taxi. I suffer from a torn tendon in one foot at the mo’ and don’t cherish walking too much. When I wanted to pay the taxi driver, I realised that I had spent too much of the 50 Euro my colleague had given me. Looking into all pockets didn’t help. I could give the taxi driver only two thirds of the money the fare cost. I’ve known this taxi driver for quite some time. He’s from Algeria, used to be a sailor on a cargo-ship, has somehow found his way to a small town in the south of Germany - far from the sea - where he married a woman of German descent from the Ukraine. His two children are pupils at the secondary grammar school I used to teach at. One couldn’t make up such a story, could one? I told him not to worry. I’d give him the rest of the money the next time I’d call him and his taxi. He laughed and left. He knows my name and address and he knows that I won’t run away. All’s well that ends well. The good thing is that I have no problems asking people to help me out. Sometimes I play the ’I’m old and already a bit gaga’ card. I’m happy to say that up to now people laugh about that because they don’t believe me. Obviously, I haven’t reached the gaga stage yet, but I’ve definitely already reached the addlebrained one.