“Is She Not Well?”

October 25, 2014


A box of diet coke (30 cans), four scotch rolls, a packet of Thornton’s triple chocolate squares.

That was it.

We could have gone through the self-checkout, but Carole decided we should go to “the happy woman”.

So we did.

When we arrived she was enjoying a full-blown conversation with a customer, clearly someone she knew, and putting the world to rights. For a long time.

A very long time.

And then it looked like we might actually get served, at which point the till lady asked her friend a question:

“How’s your mum?”
“She’s in hospital…”
“Oh, is she not well?”

No, obviously she’s in fine fettle, but is quite partial to semolina and individual pots of jelly. I could have this entirely wrong but, in my experience, it’s very rare for a well person to decide that what they really need is to go to hospital for a bit.

Sort of like a mini-break, but one themed to be a bit like Holby City.

I suppose there’s a tiny part of her that might have thought maybe her friend said “she’s in a hostel” and that asking if she was not well was a way to remove the vagaries of the potential mix up.

Don’t Look Directly Into The Trap

October 24, 2014

I looked into the trap, Ray.

There’s been a recurring theme this week. A terrible, unsightly recurribg theme.

Earlier this week I shared my half hour lunch break at work with a workman’s arse crack peering at me from the cupboard under the sink. I had to angle my chair slightly towards the wall so I couldn’t see it directly, but my peripheral vision still kept me aprised of all the movements of the man’s arse cleft.

And tonight, on the bus, A man got up to move seats and sit with his family. He was wearing grey tracksuit bottoms.

I can only assume that he’d been sitting in such a way that he’d kind of shuffled himself out of his own pants because…

… well, I don’t know how long the average arse crack is, but I am willing to bet that I saw upwards of 90% of it this evening. Obviously, it’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever been in a position to prove that fact as, hopefully, I will never see the man again (not that I can remember his face) or be in a position to measure the diameter of his bum crevice.

You know how there are paintings which have eyes that follow you around the room. This was like the complete opposite of that – this just drew in your eye and any hope of looking away was snatched away. It was like staring into the void – the vast expanse of nothingness that is a stranger’s arse crack on public transport.

And then all I could think, as an array of people got on and off the bus, was that anyone who sat there was essentialky sitting on a seat which had recently had a naked arse upon it.

I love public transport.

Three Young Lads

October 23, 2014

Three young lads
Get on the bus
“Put on some music,
Let’s make a fuss.”

Three young lads
Get on the bus
One smells like wet dog,
It’s him, not us.

Three young lads
Get on the bus
Blasting out rap songs
With verses that cuss.

Three young lads
Get on the bus
Singing along to the songs
It’s v humourous.

Three young lads
Get on the bus
They know all the words like Eminem
As they serenade us.

Three young lads
Get on the bus
Can’t carry a tune
And it’s marvelous

Three young lads
Get on the bus
I’m getting off now
So that’s a plus.

Bag In Area

October 22, 2014

“Unexpected Item in the Bagging Area!”

You’re not wrong, machine. You are not wrong. Because there was a very unexpected item in my bagging area.

I’d nipped into Sainsburys for some potatoes for chipping and some kidney beans. That was it. It, obviously, evolved slightly to encompass something for my lunch and something for dessert, but that was all I went for.

A quick in-and-out bish bash bosh job done shop visit.

It was already slowed down by a little old lady blocking off all the little bags for the veg to go in as she tried to get a grip on one of the bags. It’s something I’ve seen before – I think, as you get older, your fingers become more and more frictionless until things like fresh produce bags are one of the greatest obstacles you’ll face.

But if it wasn’t for that delay I wouldn’t have learnt that there is a collection amongst the staff of Sainsbury’s for Sally, who is leaving, that’s being organised bu a woman who’s not doing it because she wants to, but because she has to. I can’t help but think she’ll be the one that puts a button in.

Anyway, I got my stuff and made my way to the checkout. Self checkout all the way for me so I can test my morals on whether the potatoes I bought go through as the potatoes I bought or a cheaper option. They did, incidentally, go through as the correct spuds because I chickened out of selecting the wrong thing.

So I started to scan and pack and then there it was. Unexpected item in the bagging area. Everything I had packed was expected. Nothing was unexpected. Not even the potatoes because I am not a thief. So what had happe…

… Hang on, has the woman on the machine next to me just put her handbag down in my bagging area because it’s a convenient shelf?

She bloody has you know. That’s what she’s actually done.

There isn’t an option for that. You can tell the machine you’re using your own bag, but there’s not an option to say someone else is using yhe bagging area like a shelf and generally getting in the way.

Naturally I confronted her.

“What are you doing?” I demanded of her. “This is ny bagging area. I am bagging here. I should not be finding your bag in my area. Please remove it forthwith.”

To anyone listening, that may have sounded like a tut, but it was a loud tut and really conveyed my meaning.

She moved her bag and sighed at me. Actually sighed, as though I had inconvenienced her purchase of a leotard, a packet of Walkers crisps and a shitty plastic Halloween mask with the elastic held on by staples by not allowing her the option of using my bagging area for the storage of her luggage.

DFS – Deadline Festive Season

October 21, 2014

Who are these people who treat themselves to a new sofa in time for Christmas? I’ve never met anyone who’s done it, and I’m willing to bet you haven’t either…

It always seems to be a thing – and it starts earlier and earlier each year – that you can order a sofa and it will be guaranteed to be with you in time for the feative season. I think Christmas is enough of a hassle as it is without factoring in the faff of changing out your lounge seating.

Plus, if you wanted to get a new sofa is Christmas really the best time to do it. All those nibbles – crisps, nuts and the like – being consumed by people sitting on your new couch. People who will, for example, wipe their hands on your upholstery or accidentally up-end a packet of large salted nuts, thus ensuring that your new sofa is not only greasy and covered in nut dust but that you’ll be pulling half peanuts out from behind the cushions for months to come.

But it definitely seems to be a thing – something as important to the Christmas experience as the advert with the Coca Cola truck or cold turkey and bread sauce.

Order now and get it in time for Christmas, they cry, as though a two month delivery time is acceptable. I mean, I know things like this exist because ever sofa is hand-made and all that jazz but boasting about something like that seems a little bit odd. It’s hardly a next day service.

An Ode To The Sick Kid On Da Bus

October 20, 2014

I have been to prison,
So I am really cool
That’s why I’m riding on a bus
And acting like a fool.

With fucking this and fucking that
I’ll tell a tale for you
Flapping my arms all over the place
Is what I like to do.

A story of how I was in a car
That was driving at great speed
We had a crash and my spliff flew out,
Aww man, I’ve lost my weed.

I did some coke as well, you hear
I was, like, totally buzzin’
I snogged a girl and shagged one too
It probably was my cousin.

Listen though as I talk street
It’s a sign that I’m legit
Bro, ya get me, stuff like that,
I’m a noisy little git.

Ya hear me though, with these sick tales
I swear down that it’s true
And that’s why I’m on this bus
Annoying the shit out of you.


October 19, 2014

We came dangerously close to acquiring another cat today.

Not in a “someone is trying to find homes for sone kittens” way. It was definitely more of a “if it spends any longer outside our catflap I think we legally own it” kind of way.

And you know that’s what is unfolding when you find your girlfriend depositing a handful of cat biscuits on the back doorstep – via the cat flap, I might add – as a means of befriending this cat.

And we did befriend a cat.

It was our cat, but she did seem happy to be having an outside dining experience. How very European and cosmopolitan, she was probably thinking as she ate the biscuits al fresco.

Fricking cat biscuits, I was thinking as I stood on them with bare feet a few hours later. They’re up there with Lego bricks and plugs as things you really don’t want to stand on. There’s sonething about a cat biscuit that makes them both an edible treat and an effective caltrop – how many foods can boast that?

The cat we tried to steal – befriend – hasn’t really been back since. Carole saw it earlier, running across the garden, shortly before Peppa ran across after it with that double-wuick march she has that means she has business, usually secret and best if you never ask about it.

It’s unclear whether she was chasing it away or asking it to hang around because then she could eat outside again.

I suspect it’s the food thing. She’s that sort of cat.


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