So I just came back from the pharmacy to get an antihistamine (you know, PPA, CPH and PE, Chemists? isn't PPA . . . I digress). There's this elderly lady in front of me commanding the pharmacist about this drug or that drug. There's someone sitting down nearby. I glance only briefly at him. I stand waiting and she mentions to the pharmacist, "do you have prosaic?". She asks the man seated something or another about it. I take another look at him. He looks about my age. I can't help but glance again, then another quick glance but not so as to draw suspicion. It's his mother of course, the one asking the questions. I sneak another glance. I say to myself, "that's why he looks so unhappy", poorly dressed, hunched down in the chair, unshaven, with a blank sadness about him. It's so obvious from his face: that illness has devastated him! What was his life like I wonder as my mind drifts away from thoughts of PPA-induced stroke. The pharmacist tells me they don't have the toxic concoction I inquire about. I walk away thinking about that encounter, the man, his life, the maladjusted biochemistry . . . and his childhood as I think to myself what Woodsworth said: "the child is father to the man". Don't wish to bring any of you down by this. Just an interesting sort of thing that's all. Who know, may spark someone's interest here in psychology. Wait . . . let me check over there . . . yep, yep, I'm still an advisor it seems.