T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the shop, nothing was stirring, you’d hear a pin drop. The till, it was silent, the printers were still, no-one was dispensing a capsule or pill.

The day had been hectic like each Christmas Eve, that’s almost too busy even to breathe. Slumped over the bench the pharmacist lay, too tired from working to notice a sleigh…

A sleigh that had pulled up outside the shop, with a whoosh and swoosh it had come to a stop. Like all our deliveries it parked with its load – one rail on the pavement and one on the road.

Blocking the street so no cars could get past, the driver climbed out with his pants at half-mast. And swung open the doors to reveal there inside, all boxes and tote trays askew on their side.

With a huff and a puff he barged through the door, and dumped them across the dispensary floor. Then uttered a greeting of: “Here you are mate – sorry I got here a little bit late.”

“The traffic’s a nightmare, the weather is pissing. And, oh, by the way, there’s two boxes missing. But that’s your CDs and the fridge line is there,” as he handed me music and a chocolate eclair.

My eyes opened wide and my smile grew much broader – this wasn’t our usual dispensary order – I looked at the parcels delivered that night and realised they made a most seasonal sight.

Where normally blue or green boxes are brought, these were all red with a gold ribbon wrought. Instead of the usual tote box and seal, the shrinkwrap and tape had a Christmassy feel.

The first box I opened I saw, with a shock, was full of that hard to get on-quota stock, along with a pile of ear and eye drops, that are never reliably there in the shops. And topical steroids that no-one can get. That was a treat but, much better yet, was a new telephone with a ringer mute button, a dispensary stool that’s comfy to sit on.

An insulated mug to keep our drinks hot, a mountain of Post-its and pens in a pot, a folio of evidence to please the inspector, an advance-warning area manager detector.

“I can’t take the empties – the sleigh is too full. There’s only so much the reindeer can pull. I’ve got to get back to my grotto and elves,” he said as his barrow knocked stock from the shelves.

“Sign here mate,” he muttered and in my hand thrust, a printed drop sheet. “Yeah, the PDA’s bust”. I looked at the drop sheet he handed to me – t’was a letter to Santa from each pharmacy.

He said: “I’ve a list and I’ve checked it twice – GPhC can’t decide who is naughty or nice.”

Then he leapt on his sleigh and I watched him go, with a smile and a wave and a festive “ho ho!”.