I knew this morning that I shouldn’t have gone into town. You know those days where your inner voice is screaming: Don’t do it! Stay home!
Well, I ignored that voice because we were running low on supplies. I needed handy shit like food and stuff. So, I dropped little one off at school and walked to town. Halfway down some guy stepped into the road and nearly got run over. I saw the danger before he did and I stopped, as though me stopping would make him stop walking, but he was ahead of me and wouldn’t have taken my cue. So I let out a pathetic, “Oh!” and that did the trick. He stopped, the car stopped, and all ended well.
Apart from my effing heart going like the clappers and the fact I’d nearly shit my pants.
Anyway, I got into town, went food shopping, couldn’t find the meatballs. Minor bug, but a bug all the same. I paid, left the goods there cos they do home delivery, and went off to get my nails done. I had them done in January as a birthday treat and had let them grow out until they looked disgusting. So I walked in, and the usually chirpy lady asked: You got an appointment?
No, I didn’t, but I’ve never needed one before. She’s always fitted me in. So immediately I felt like a kid who had done something wrong. Not cool. So she asked what I wanted. I said the old ones taking off and new ones put on. She said she had someone coming in half an hour later, so I suggested she take mine off, I go back around town to get my other stuff, and return to have the new put on once she'd finished with the other lady. Fine. Lovely. Until, with her little machiney thing, she caught my cuticle and the skin ripped. Not her fault because my cuticle on that finger was non-existent because I’d been, umm, picking it due to something going on next week that I’ll tell you about next week.
So, ouch. Blood dripping, nail woman panicking she’d hurt me. I assured her it was ok, but it would not stop bleeding. She gave me a plaster to put on while I went back around town. Man, my finger THROBBED like mad.
Anyway, off I went into Argos. It’s a shop some Brits take the piss out of because you can get cheap shit there. Cheap—therefore I like Argos despite the jokes about it. So I’m browsing, looking for a new slow cooker (crock pot) because mine broke last week. I could have cried because I use it one hell of a lot with my job being what it is, and I can have the food cooking all day without me worrying about fucking about making dinner later. It broke because I had the pot bit upside down in the dishwasher while I loaded it up, left the dishwasher drawer out, and the lid, swimming on the worktop covered in water (don’t ask, just don’t!) skidded across, fell off and landed on the pot. Cracked it into about 4 pieces. Gutted because I loved it and gutted because my daughter bought it for me. So I needed a new one. I saw the cheap price, thought That’ll bloody well do! and waited at the counter for it to be brought down. Lemme explain. Argos has nothing in it except rows of catalogues on high sides. You look through the book, pick what you want, write the number down, then pay at the till. Then they good folks who work there rummage through the warehouse and bring it to the collection desk.
I see the box and think: That’s rather big. Bigger box than the last one. So I mentioned that to the woman, and she assured me it was just packaging. “You know what these companies are like.” Yeah. I do.
I carried it out—and my God it was heavy—and went back to the nail place. She did her stuff, I left, and hefted the cooker around town while I picked up some other bits and bobs. On the way to get the bus, this little kid, must have been about 2, legged it up to this hairdressers we have here where there’s a massive yellow rubber duck in the window—it’s relevant to the name of the shop. He’s saying “Quack, quack!” and I smiled at him, then at this older lady who was smiling madly at me. And we’re talking excessively madly here, folks. I assumed she was his granny or something, so I said, “Oh, bless, he’s gone to see the duck.”
Her smile vanished, and she then stared at me as though I was shit on her shoe. I thought: What the EFF? You were just smiling at me!
For the record, our town has one of the highest rates for mental people (statistical fact; I’m not joking) so I can only assume she was nuts.
I walked off wanting to cry because shit, it had been hard enough going out there today because I really hadn’t wanted to and forced myself. I’m actually worrying I’m becoming agoraphobic, for Christ’s sake. I have somewhere I have to be next week and although I’m not worried about meeting the person I have to meet—very far from it—I’m nervous about travelling so far from home.
I waited for the bus. It came late. I got home, wanted a wee, ciggie and cuppa in that order. I couldn’t get my key in the door quick enough. I wanted “home” to swallow me, know what I mean? I automatically came to sit here and start work, but made myself unpack the cooker so I could get some food on, work without worrying. I opened the box…
The cooker is the size of a gorilla.
The cooker is the size of my fucking microwave.
I could fit two chickens in it.
No wonder it was bloody heavy!
Now I’m here, feeling much better for being at home. I have a project I must finish but it’s a long job and I now don’t feel in the right frame of mind for it so may have to leave it until tomorrow. I would have finished it last week but I’d been waiting on some software to arrive and a couple of microphones. Don’t ask! All will be revealed soon!
I have no clue why I’ve told you all about this morning. I’ve rambled. It was a very boring ramble. Begging your pardon.