Yesterday I watched Pete and Engine Room (with great skill – but nothing approaching mine) illuminate a day which I am beginning to dread.
Why must Mondays exist!
Whilst they enjoyed their coffee (made the correct way), munched on croissants for brekkie and pot noodles for lunch enjoying themselves discussing major supply sources of banned materials, poor Hil trying to downplay revelations on how skilled the US is at being amateur about statesmanship and just generally getting on with life and a number of pressing diablog issues, what happened to me?
Great day Monday. First I have to sort an idiotic bank manager who seems to think that cash flow is simply something I should be able to control at the snap of my fingers. I am forever grateful to RBS for having made us all enjoy the run up to Christmas so much.
Then, on trying to make a simple cup of tea, it seemed a good time for the washing machine to shed its water supply and drown assorted stored ‘dry’ goods by emptying the Thames onto the floor – I hate plumbing. I get soaked trying to repair it and my repairs never seem to work. Yes, you guessed, deluge two followed my valiant efforts (Pete was very inspired to refer to me leaking!). We’ll see today if the BandAid has worked!
As usual, whilst up to my neck in muck and bullets, Mme Glynskette needs a lift to the shops ‘cos ‘parking is difficult’! Changing in to dry clothes whilst the solution to Africa’s water shortage pours over the floor is ‘kin difficult!
At the same time I am contacted by the carer of an elderly relative that ‘ we need porridge’ –
– I should have thought of that for the water leak! Next time!
This resulted in a trip to a local supermarket to replace said dry goods and buy porridge, which reintroduced me to the joys of trying to circumnavigate (let alone park) in 7,000 acres of parking spaces populated by, the true description eludes me, morons/dorks/people who were given a licence for Christmas/women/gerrys, who are all in either Nissan Micras or BMWs and Range Rovers the size of the Andes.
I fully appreciate that one should drive with care as there are children, old people and a sprinkling of camels in every supermarket environment, but why is everything slowed to the pace the slowest zimmer frame?
Why give someone, with the spacial awareness of a bluebottle trying to find a way through an open window, a medium sized truck which has to be slotted into a space the size of my brain. This is, of course, helped by filling the back seat with child seats as big as an armchair, scooters and the trees just bought at a gardening centre. No, I can’t get in forwards so I will turn round and go in backwards – why can’t I see. Oh lets try sideways.
Meanwhile, the Micra brigade are circulating in reverse like piranhas to nip in behind the truck ‘operative’ to add to the chaos. They invariably wear hats to stop the stiff neck getting worse, knitted gloves and spectacles with lenses which can double as saucers when having their tea. They also invariably have Doris in the passenger seat. Doris is, of course, incredibly aggressive and very useful as a rear gunner. She is more than capable of delivering a mouthful of abuse that would credit Wayne Rooney accompanied by flailing hand movements that make her world champion at Charades. All is explained by these two having been married (I wonder if he removed his hat on honeymoon?) for at least 216 years and the frustration of having a seriously ugly partner – constantly by your side – can best be relieved in the ‘carpark attack’ – I submit this as an idea for a new Mariocart game. And they have no idea what ‘dogging’ really is, except it should be kept on a lead!
Do Micra drivers open their letters with a ‘letter knife’? It is about as useful as their driving.
I love Nissan Micras – and the Prius and anything Hyundai! Who decided to flatter the self righteous and let them shove their planet friendly design catastrophies down our throats. Even better are 5′ 2″ drivers of Range Rovers, although at least their only sin is being incompetant ‘whilst in possession’..
So, diablog, my mission is –
Avoid at all costs a visit to the supermarket – except, I suppose, when on direct and imperative orders!
Yours, diablog, a cringing wreck