Saturday night, half an hour before closing up a hectically busy evening. We'd nearly sold out of Sharpz Kits and it seemed every asthmatic on The Coast was heading out clubbing for the number of inhalers being let loose.

Self-harm chills me. Ignoring the blood and flesh. The diminishing sensation of each nerve's tingling throb, fading to the feel of cotton sheet across shaven leg. It chills me.

In a quiet moment, the doors whirred and two girls came in, about eighteen. Both wore black cut-off t-shirts, plaid red mini-skirts, fishnets and raccoon eyes. The one with the large dressing on her arm begins to inspect the wound-dressing displays, and the other heads in my direction.

"Hey, um, we wanna get something to take out stitches and dress a cut. What can we use?"

I wandered over to the display, and casually asked a few questions. The 'cut' was about half a foot long, running down her arm elbow to wrist. It was bullet-pointed at each end by fine, linear scars running perpendicular to the newest laceration. The ragged edges, she perkily informed me, were because the knife had been blunter than expected. The on-duty Doc in the ED had stitched her up quite nicely and dressed the laceration.

There were already some finger-sized holes between the stitches; the iodine smeared in distinct, gloveless finger-prints. She and her friend wanted something to prevent infection. And remove the stitches.

"So," I asked, "why are you so keen to whip these stitches out?"

"It hurts. Maybe get some more from my other doctor. I just don't want it to get infected, 'cos that's gross."

We calmly chatted about removing her own hour-old stitches being a very bad idea and that the longer she left the cut open, not only the greater chance of infection but some other nastiness could happen. She was adamant, emotionally blunted as the knife she'd used.

We don't sell stitch cutters; they're almost never appropriate for use in the community. I further counseled regarding antiseptics and signs of infection and dressings. 'Stitches in' was the best option, I stressed.

I impressed the importance of visiting her GP the next day, and provided them with the 24-hour Psychiatry Hotline number. I felt that I was losing their audience. The girl with arms intact had begun wandering around the store, disengaged.

We moved to the till, where I slowly put the sale through; iodine, two dressings, some tape. The friend strolled over to the till to join in the sale. She had in her hand, the largest pair of scissors from the shelf. She triumphantly dropped them on the counter.

And they both stare disbelieving as I say "I'm not selling you those."