Monday, April 24, 2006

Hello

I was sitting in the launderette watching my pants dancing inappropriately with my socks in the washer. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a discarded copy of Hello magazine, the classic launderette better life aspiring read. The cover had a picture of Charles and Camilla, with the headline “Charles and Camilla : What you really think about their marriage“.

And I don’t know what kind of witch-craft those Hello magazine journalists using to find out this information, but the underlining of the word ’you’ left me in no doubt that they had been rifling through my sub-conscious with a fine-tooth comb.

At first I felt violated, but then slightly excited. Finally I would have a my random thoughts on the future monarch and his thoroughbred woman thing put into coherent sentences. I read on.

Apparently I felt that Camilla could never replace Diana, and that I would never accept her as the queen. I tried to look into my thoughts, to see if I could verify the words on the page, but it’s all a little cloudy in there.

I decided I should just accept that what it said was the truth. After all loads of people read Hello. And the magazine comes out every week. This means by this time next year I could have collected fifty-two different subjects of which I will know what I really think about them( I’ve given up making this sentence make any sense) . Granted it will be things about Jordan’s breasts and the Duchess Of Kent’s Lavender Jacket but that’s OK. I don’t think I really want to know what I think about anything important; I don't want any nasty suprises.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Death of a Queue Jumper

This queue, my queue( I‘d taken responsibility cause I was at the front. ), had a certain level of complexity in that it was a single feeder queue for two basket checkouts. And as it was in We-really-couldn’t-be-arsed-to-put-any-thought-into-the-shop-layout-Sommerfield the pressure to hold order was palpable ( No idea what palpable means!)

But then, a figure not unlike Ob-wan Kenobi, stumbled to the second basket checkout, ignoring ‘The Queue’ and muttering something about ‘the force’. This incredibly rude and unexpected turn-taking violating movement, meant, by my approximation, a further 40 second wait in the queue, for me and each of my bitches (members of the queue)

Should I say something? I mean, would I really miss those forty seconds anyway? There's nothing I could really do with them.

I admit that well within a forty second time limit Michael Johnson has run 400m to win an Olympic gold-medal, Isaac Newton has conceived the notion of Gravity after seeing an apple fall form a tree and Boris Becker has impregnated some dodgy burd he'd just met, in a cupboard in a London Restaurant (with 37 seconds to spare).

But would any of them have achieved these things if they were standing in a checkout queue in Sommerfield holding a basket full of vegetables, scones and Muller Lite Yoghurts?

Newton might have realised the existence of gravity watching the hung-over ginger student dropping a four-pack of Stella on his toe and Boris Becker would still have found somewhere to let his German juices fly. But Micheal Johnson would have struggled to have run 400m around the cramped, inconsistently stocked aisles in under forty seconds. Even if he did, he would probably have lost a couple of Sommerfield Suitable for Baking Potatoes from his basket. And them potatoes is mighty fine.

Anyway, to justify not challenging the queue indifferent Jedi Knight, I decided I would, after going to bed, delay my going to sleep by a minute, thus not only ensuring this man had not made any negative impact on my waking day, but also taking the piss by extending it by 20 party-like seconds.

But then I heard disgruntled murmurings from behind. Those in the queue…my queue…who had followed and trusted me over cold and hard years, were not so forgiving as me of this new development. They had admired my queuing, I think some of them may have even started to fall in love with me. But now like most Gods, I had let them down; undermined their faith. And so, I was motivated to act.

"Excuse me", I called out, "There is a queue."

Though saying 'There is a queue' is not technically telling someone to join the back of it, more informing them that such a thing exists; the expected behaviour of the recipient of these words is to turn around, see the line of people, then look embarrassed and quickly walk away mumbling something sounding like "untseeitorry".

But this man was not playing by the rules. He turned around darted his eyes sideways then turned back in clear defiance of convenience store etiquette.

So we killed him. It wasn't excessively violent, more of an execution. He looked over sixty, so he probably wasn't contributing anything to society anyway.
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