garage salesmen

Everytime I visit a garage I am never disappointed by the horrror that is the salesman, the slimey, skinny, grey creature that lurks unappealingly at the customer services desk in wait to slither his obnoxious path through my enquiry. For fear of libel I will not mention his name or his snotty little den of employment, though in retrospect why worry as I slandered the toerags name liberally through the days that followed to any moderately attentive ear. I took my Vauxhall in to a specific dealership [first clue] in a small citadel north of a famous historic University town [clue two], and asked for a confirmation that the fan motor was dead, I knew it was and so did they, I explained I had to be told the cost before they did any work, and they phoned through with a quote, £167.75, crickey!, but it has to be done and I booked it for two days later. That evening I called in to pick up the sick car, and the salesman said 'so it will be £219', errrh? I asked why, he explained that they charge for the investigation, what investigation I told you what was wrong. He re-explained as if I had not quite understood, I batted back a reply 'that I did understand what he had claimed but...', and further said I was told the price, he tensed up. A swift rally of stubborn word tennis and he said 'you are being very silly'. Silly, a word that lit up the moment and I went for match point, 'silly is not an appropriate address for a customer, it suggests sexism does it not?'. He winced. I explained in my finest deepest vocal tones that I would be in on Friday, I would be paying £167.75 and no more and that he would now print out confirmation. He winced.
Point, set, match. Hoorah!.

turnstyle hell

They [who are they?] have put in turnstyles at our railway station. Apparently to curb crime but in action to curb the flow of traffic. The trains unload and a seriously ugly scene develops in seconds, the teenagers drift in clumps of hormonal discharge and the elderly bounce uncontrollably from the shoulders and bags of the commuters. The surge is a heath and safety nightmare, the backlog soon sits like a unsavory drainage crisis and voices hiss leaking expletives in the ears of the innocent. The number of guards and attendants have had to triple to filter through the sleepy and snappy travellers and the transport police hover as extras in a crowd scene from a Lynda Le Plante drama. This obstacle course is an exersize in statistical analysis, we are numbers on a chart of law and order, figures in a game the men in suits think suitable and acceptable, we should revolt and scale the barriers in a citizens olympiad of protest. Though I guess its unlikely and they know it. Angry dears such as I will occasionally snipe and grizzle but the masses are under control, like mice on the mouse organ we are workers and in general only parts in the machine and not the keys to release disorder.

I'm dreaming of a grey Christmas

I was born in the great snow storm of 1964, frozen in the carry cot, carried across the deep snowy wastes of the town park from the warmth of the maternity ward. Red with a nasty rubber allergy and blue as the ice, snuggled up in white fleece a veritable flag of Britishness. Cold, hungry and far too small to do anything about it. I guess that was the first of many moments of frustration. Today, Christmas Day is grey, cold and wet, what would I swap for a glorious white snow storm? nothing! absolutely nothing. I am at one with the wetness. Those first snows have made me eternally grateful for the lack of the virgin drifts and the blinding purity of its dazzling shades. I hear the Americans are nose deep in the seasonal stuff, well they can keep it, along with their foreign policies.

the value of sleep

Last night I couldn't get to sleep, my head was buzzing like a chainsaw. Was it the ongoing dilemma of Supermarket encounters?, the rising price of life? or the fact I was far too tired to sleep?. The day had been a roll call of meetings and questions, my mind had had to be on full alert all day. To cap it off I had dropped into the dreaded big shop on the way home, some essentials were required, you can't make a good omlette without herbs and to follow something sweet was necessary having left my blood sugar levels at work I was running on empty. It is all becoming clear, I can now begin to understand why I couldn't fall easily into slumber, I was beached, totalled, wiped-out, bombed, I was beyond the ability to relax. [note to self-you are beginning to push your luck]. What I needed was a deep, bubbly bath, the cliched candled bathroom scenario, pampering, I made the fatal mistake of not seeing the train that was approaching me at high speed, and the plainly clear, in retrospect, fact that it was about to bit me at ten to the witching hour, full on no mercy, damn!. A new term for tired and without sleep has to be 'flattened', I was completely and utterly flattened. The psychodelic effect of my flattened state was an east european animation studio extravaganza, wild music, scratchboard images bright on the darkest of black backgrounds, swirling violently, a fantasmagoria of my sketches. I knew that eventually I would fall asleep but the process of fretting over my half-waking dreams was sufficient to fuel me well into the early hours. I woke this morning at dawn, as bright as the shiniest button on a child best Sunday coat, sparkling, breezy and fully in tune with the new day.

seats on the train

Here she goes again, off on one, and todays grrrrrowl is about those people who use bags to mark their expanse on the train. What is it that drives them to such levels of selfishness?, fear of infection? conversation?. I make a very special, overly friendly move in their direction, like a cat who knows who hates them, I purposefully invaid their space. Asking kindly would they please relocate their bags as I am landing, I then plumet from the sky and land happily achieveing my goal to miff them off. Sufficiently miffed they shuffle around huffing and puffing, some even attempt to stare hard to intimidate me, I then use the killer line 'have you got enough space?', the answer has always been up to now 'FINE!!', 'good' is my reply. This is all part of lifes ultra fine tapestry, be nice to achieve your goals, but don't ever tollerate seat hogging, bag totting, face pulling meanies.

the cost of croissants!

Have Tescos confused the rise in petrol prices to the cost of a croissant? Am I wrong or has the cost of a plain croissant suddenly gone from 29p to 35p, and the chocolate ones from 49p to 55p? Percentage wise thats quite significant and not inline with RPI. This morning I was made quite grumpy when about to pick up a plain one a rather rude chap barged in, swiped the tonges and stuffed a bag full of a mixed croissants. Given the opportunity to wait I noticed the price which made me even more grumpy, and also how small they were aswell. My natural reaction was to moan, an art in which I am experienced, I heaved a big sigh as it is a pointless art, slammed the plastic bag down, huffed and stomped off. I saw the rude chap at the checkout, me with a box of crunchy nut cornflakes [infinately better value] and him with his undersized, over-priced flakey pastries, he eyed me suspiciously, I glared, another happy event in the supermarket I thought, do not mess with me in the morning!