It's a horrible afternoon in the pharmacy department and there is tension in the air. Nobody remembers if temazepam is a controlled drug. If it is, we're about to make a very illegal mistake. If it isn't, we're wasting everyone's time.
"It's not," says the screening pharmacist. "I'm sure it's not. It's like diazepam. It isn't a controlled drug, it just lives in the cupboard."
"Diazepam isn't in the cupboard anymore," I say.
This is going to be a long afternoon. He opens the question up to the room: "do we need a controlled drug request form for temazepam?"
"Yes," says the assistant with 30 years of experience.
"No," says the transitional care technician's husband.
"What? We've always had forms for temazepam?" says the transitional care technician herself, indignantly waving a bottle of amoxicillin.
"It's not a controlled drug," says the older technician. "It just needs a form." She's had a long day.
"It's a controlled drug!" the transitional care technician insists.
"When did the table break?" asks the IT pharmacist, trying to fix the table. It's been broken for a day and a half.
The screening pharmacist looks in the BNF, and doesn't say anything, which suggests that he's wrong. He sets the book down, stands up, and announces to the room:
He's gone for a while. I dispense something else. The IT pharmacist can't fix the table, and instead makes it even worse. He decides that they're going to swap it for another table.
The screening pharmacist returns.
The IT pharmacist smirks. "Why?"
"He never admits I'm right."
It doesn't matter to me. I'm going home in ten minutes.
