The chemist is kind when I venture, bleary-eyed and smelling of regurgitated fruit syrup, to our local pharmacy, but stresses paracetamol suppositories are expensive. They don’t carry many of them, he tells me, since people in the UK don’t really go for anal medicine. “They love it in France,” he tells me, with a vigour that suggests the good people of France would take their dinners up their arses if the option were available. On seeing the bill, however, I can’t help thinking that even Gérard Depardieu, unbuckling his belt at the hint of a headache, would blanch at the thought of spending £3 per pellet. I, on the other hand, march back home happy to be £30 lighter.
