Phew……For one reason or another, probably known only to the Gods, last week seemed to be full of irritations. What’s new there you might ask, well nothing I suppose, but last week just seemed to be worse than normal.
As a sort of disclaimer, can I just say that there are obviously many people throughout the world that are in a much worse position than myself, and I in no way wish to belittle their problems, by comparing my relatively minor moans and groans to theirs. That’s the legal stuff out of the way. Never the less, I did feel that the good Lord was testing my patience to the limit last week.
I don’t know about you, but there are times when the lunacy and sheer stupidity that can occur on this planet, can drive me to very dark places. It is at times like these that I can be found sitting alone in the attic, illuminated by a single flickering forty watt bulb, clutching my knees to my chest, slowly rocking back and forth, and talking to Troy my action man. I spent quite a lot of time in the attic last week, and here are two examples of why.
My friend told me about this, I say friend, his name is Colin, and he visits me at the day centre. I think he is paid to do it, but they won’t confirm that.
Where he works, there is a sort of reception building come guard post, and in there, are what can only be described as pseudo Nazis. Little men (they are always short) that positively revel in bureaucracy and jobs worthiness. If they could, I wouldn’t put it passed them to strip naked and frolic on a bed of paper work, and rub themselves all over with rules and regulations.
Anyway, if you have a visitor coming to see you, you have to inform the reception of their arrival. Time, name, reason for visit, blood type, sperm count, mother’s maiden name etc. He told me of an instance recently, that went something like this…….
Please read the part of the pseudo Nazi with an adenoidal train spotter type voice, it will help honest! (You could also read it with a German accent, but that is probably racist)
Colin rings the reception.
Nazi - Good morning reception, how can I help you?
Colin - Ah good morning, I have a visitor coming this morning, I …….
Nazi - Whoa wo wo hold it right there…….
Colin - Sorry, I just wanted to inform you of his arrival, and…….
Nazi - I’m not listening (Puts fingers in ears) la la la la la la…….
Colin - I’m sorry, is there a problem?
Nazi - Everybody has been advised, that if they wish to inform us of a visitation, they can only do so by fax.
Colin - Ah yes, sorry about that, I forgot. While I’m on the phone, could we just do it now?
Nazi - La la la la la la I’ve told you, only by fax. If you would be so kind as to fax the details through, I would be happy to process it for you.
Colin - ok ok, I’ll fax it.
Colin follows the correct procedure, and faxes all the information through.
An hour and a half later, his phone rings…….ring ring, ring ring…….
Colin - Hello.
Nazi - Yes hello, it is reception here, you have a visitor of which we have not been informed. The rules quite clearly state, that all visitors must be pre booked in by their visitees, two or more hours before the arrival of said guest.
Colin - I phoned you this morning…….
Nazi - Oh well, that’s where you have gone wrong you see, you should have faxed the information through.
Colin - I did.
Nazi - You have just said that you phoned.
Colin - I phoned first, and then you told me to fax it, which I then did.
Nazi - Well we haven’t received it.
Colin - Well I can’t help that, if you had let me do it over the phone, we Wouldn’t be having this problem would we.
Nazi - Ah you can’t phone it through, you have to fax it.
Colin - I DID
Nazi - Well we haven’t received it…….
And so it goes on and on, like some kind of hellish perpetual spiral. Down into the bowels of Hades.
The other example is by far my favorite. I really bent Troy’s ear with this one. It happened last week, Miss Marple and myself had both nipped out of work one lunchtime to do some stuff in town. One of the things we had to do, was pay a visit to ‘Wilkinsons’. Now, after the collapse of Woolworths, Wilkinsons has now been promoted to the top spot of ‘worst shops in existence’.
Call me a snob, call me aloof, call me elitist, call me pompous, but I bloody can’t stand Wilkinsons. It seems to always be full of old people who smell of urine, and chavs, who apparently also smell of urine, mixed with the residue of Marlboro lights. Our local branch has a low sort of window sill that runs the whole length of the window. This is always full of old people just sitting there. What are they doing? I always feel like I need to walk through some kind of sheep dip when exiting the shop, to be cleansed.
Anyway, I took a deep breath, plucked up the courage, tried to be a grown up for ten minutes, and took the first tentative steps through the front door. I followed Miss Marple around, hanging onto her coat tails, staring wide eyed, and trying desperately to avoid contact with anyone, eye or otherwise. We got all the bits we needed, and headed towards the checkout.
On route to the checkout, Miss Marple spied the ‘Pick and mix’ section. Being a bit of a sucker for things that are colourful and sugary, she decided to treat herself. She filled up the bag with all sorts of goodies, and then we both noticed signs that were three foot high, saying……."Please weigh your pick and mix bag, before taking it to the checkout. Thank you." As the signs were so prominent, and so numerous, we took it that this was very important, and failing to adhere to this rule would result in us being ejected forcibly from the shop, or arrested, or beheaded or something. So Miss Marple diligently weighed the bag, and stuck the little sticker that came out of the machine onto the bag.
We got to the checkout, and I was delighted that I had almost completed the mission without brushing up against any old people or chavs. We were standing in the queue, and I was only a few inches away from a real life chav. She was a proper one and everything. She had the Croydon face lift haircut, tracksuit bottoms, a gob full of chewing gum, a mobile phone which seemed to be welded to her ear, and half a dozen or so screaming chavlets.
It was at times like this that I wished I had the courage to ask her if she had any idea which schools she would be sending her little darlings to. She would inevitably ask me what it had got to do with me, at which point I could tell her that I was in little doubt that I was paying for their existence, so I would just like to be assured that they would be receiving a half decent education, so that there was a small glimmer of hope that they would find some kind of employment in their adult years, so that I wouldn’t have to pay for them for the full three score years and ten! But alas my balls are not that big.
I did however take this opportunity to do the sniff test. I glanced surreptitiously left and right to see if the coast was clear, and then gingerly leaned forward. I squeezed my right nostril shut with my index finger, and inhaled heartily. It is indeed true, my nostril was filled with the aroma of piss and Marlboro lights, and a heady combination it was to.
I am surprised that some perfume company hasn’t tried to capture this scent in a bottle. ‘Au de chav’ Of course the chav would be said in a French kind of way, probably "Shav" or something. I can picture the advert now, a lady chav would be reclining on a chez long covered in benefit claims, the chavlets would be shooting pensioners from the window with air rifles, Dad chav would be watching ‘Stargate’ on his heavily subsidized 52" plasma, and daughter chav would be getting knocked up, and filling in the child benefit forms simultaneously. Mum chav would then lean provocatively towards the camera (Retch) and say……."Le Shav, the fragrance from laboratory garneaaaaaaa, because your werfless"
Anyway, we eventually got to the checkout. The stuff was being beeped through the scanner, and all was well. Then ‘Darren’ or whatever his name was, picked up the bag of pick and mix. He stopped, why was he not beeping it, it quite clearly had a bar code on the sticker that came out of the machine.
"Oh hang on a minute." Said Darren.
"Is there a problem?" said Miss Marple.
"I’ve just got to get this weighed," said Darren.
Miss Marple and I looked at each other, and raised eyebrows simultaneously.
"But I weighed it on the scales, like the signs told me to," said Miss marple.
Darren looked at her, and without taking his ipod from his ears said "Yeah, but I gotta get it checked."
At this point Darren disappeared for three or four days to check that we hadn’t put one fruit salad in the bag, weighed it, and then filled it to the brim.
You are ahead of me I know, but if the shop aren’t going to trust people to be honest, WHY GET US TO FUCKING WEIGH IT IN THE FUCKING FIRST PLACE.
I should have known my trip to Wilkinsons wasn’t going to be good, I should have realized that once I had been head butted in the testicles by a two year old, things weren’t going to get any better. I should have gone straight to the car, and gone back to work.
Yes just before entering Wilkinsons, my gonads had a coming together with a two year old boy! I was walking along, and coming towards me was a lady with her toddler of a son. He was a dear little chap, and he was doing that walk that only a two year old can do. You know the one, they sort of defy gravity by kind of permanently stumbling forward, but never actually hitting the deck. It’s hard to replicate, I know I have tried.
They combine this with never actually looking in the direction that they are traveling in. You can’t blame them, when you’re two the world is a wondrous place, full of lots of things to see. "Look mummy, doggie" etc.
So anyway, the little chap was heading towards me, and I could see what might potentially happen. I did my best, honest I did, but every time I moved one way or another, the little chap countered me, it wasn’t looking good. I must have looked like a cross between a rugby player, stepping one way and then the other, trying to avoid the oncoming tackle, and an overweight, out of work ballerina, who had fallen on hard times, and had resorted to performing on the streets to make ends meet.
I was stepping this way, pirouetting that way, swerving here, rolling there, but to no avail, the little chap's right ear impacted on my gonads. Fortunately the pain wasn’t severe. My main concern was that his mother, having witnessed me thrusting my groin in the direction of her two year old boys head, was going to shout "Pedophile" at the top of her voice, and the ‘Child abuse swat team’ would rope down from helicopters, and I would be taken away.
My computer would be carried from the house in a plastic bag, and I would have to suffer the indignity of the trip to court in an armored van, while people hurled bottles and themselves at it. Press photographers would try to take pictures of the ‘Evil one’ through the blacked out windows, and even after pleading my innocence, I would spend years in jail being some enormous black man’s bitch. I would have to be kept in the isolation wing for my own protection, and try to sleep at night as fellow inmates shouted "Nonce" all night long.
Fortunately it never came to this. After apologising profusely, she said "Oh he’s always doing that" To which I felt like saying "Maybe a little counseling wouldn’t go amiss then Madame, nip it in the bud." But I didn’t, once again my now slightly tender balls just weren’t up to it.
Oh and God made it rain from our kitchen ceiling, but that is another story for another day. I am exhausted, and Troy say’s he needs a break.
Love and kisses.
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