If only giving up was in my nature I’d be a hermit by now living in a hovel on a windy Norfolk cliff edge. Why a Norfolk cliff edge? Why not, I like Norfolk.
I think I’m writing this today because I feel a desperate need to connect with a human being, any human being to be honest, who can relate to where my head is right now. You know me, I’m a jolly little person getting on with silly little mundane things, battling on against the incoming tide – sorry, for a second there I was already on my Norfolk cliff edge watching the waves coming in, munching a breakfast of dandelion leaves and clover. I digress . . .
I think it was the bloody washing machine trying to go into orbit, early last week, with a crashing noise like the house was caving in that started this latest desire of mine to metamorphose into a hermit. The whole kitchen vibrated. The crockery fell off the draining board and Chea (kitty) ran for the hills and no attempts to encourage her out from under the sofa worked until she heard the rustle of her favourite treat being opened.
Of course, ‘my man,’ said he would ‘look’ at it and in fairness he did, over a period of 3/4 days before announcing it was not repairable. Hallelujah! I could have told him that a week ago.
Then, two days ago, in my over exuberance to place the lemonade bottle to the back of the cupboard, over the top of 12 bottles of spring water the whole shelf collapsed. Chea ran for the hills.
This resulted in 3 smashed side plates, 1 halved dinner plate and 12 bottles of spring water landing on my toes.
Then, today, after catching on the news that people who lost a couple of kilos of weight were less likely to get diabetes and taking exercise is still the best way to beat depression (and/or in my case having overwhelming desires to become a hermit) I decided I wouldn’t sit on my bum, scoffing Nobbly Bobblys and Lidl’s nutty caramel bars while ‘my man’ went to the pharmacy for me, no, I’d go myself . . . and I’d walk.
The pharmacy is only half a mile (there and back) so a mile. OK, so my dicky hips, painful legs, old hernia repair wound might twinge a bit but so what, if losing a couple of kilos would help to prevent diabetes and a mile’s hobbling would lighten my mood it was worth it.
There was no one in the chemist so all good. On went my mask. I shouldered open the door and embarked, following the yellow floor arrows till I arrived at the counter. I gave my name and waited. I will at this point admit to having had a niggling feeling that there would be a problem. I’m jolly clever like that – predicting problems! I’m not sure if the assistant was grimacing beneath her mask put I reckon she was as she said . . .
‘Er . . . we don’t have these. They are due to come in later today . . . or tomorrow.’
‘Today . . . or tomorrow,’ I muffled (I’m wearing a mask, obviously)
‘And that’s definite,’ I muffled.
‘Er . . . I can ring and ask . . . oh, I have one, you can have that.’
She held before my eyes an opened box.
‘One foil,’ I said. (A foil holds 7 tablets)
‘No, one tablet,’ she said.
I admit I snorted, like a pig wearing a mask. ‘One tablet . . . no you keep it you might need it for someone else.’
I wasn’t picking up the elixir of life just a flipping acid reducing tablet. Why wouldn’t they keep a stock – and the order was placed over a week ago? And you wonder why I want to go and live on a cliff edge? Come to think about it I reckon I’m already living on a cliff edge? I gave her my mobile number and asked her to text when they were in, I’m not walking back and forth, back and forth until I know they are there for sure. You can have too much exercise, right?
The outcome? A new washing machine is due for delivery on Saturday – what could possibly go wrong? The delivery might happen but ‘my man’ fitting it? The shelf has been put back and I’ve taken some of the weight off it. It meant rearranging all the other cupboards to get the extra bits in because I’m nothing if not organised and neat and tidy. Thank goodness it wasn’t the shelf holding the 65 tins of baked beans, that gave way!
And before you accuse me of stock piling it isn’t true, I am merely ordering 6 tins of beans with each delivery. It’s called being prepared. I also have a jolly nice stock (if you don’t mind me using the ‘s’ word?) of toilet rolls – a necessity with that many tins of baked beans. See? Prepared.
P.S. I HAVE now moved the 65 tins of baked beans to a base unit – along with the 12 tins of mushy peas, 15 cans of tomatoes, 10 cans of . . .