Musings from the Merse
Saturday, May 20, 2006
THINGS NOT TO DO ON SATURDAY MORNING #1
Visit Morrisons.
Needs must and Huttonian against his better judgment was forced into Sir M's at 10am today. Saturday morning at the start of the caravan season is not the place to be unless you are of the masocistic tendency. Mobs of hung over people staggering aggressively under loads of hair of the dog, tattoos pallid against sun lamped skin or the result of early visits to Benidor; post vomit ABSO pending youngsters fiercely objecting to doing something boring like shopping and tearing open recently purchased ciggie packets to calm their nerves-and those were the six year old girls. (The teenagers still unconscious in their vans)Fortunately I had only to penetrate the pink semi secure area where the newspapers lurk and not the Green Zone, the suicide bomber free zone-was a mass of heaving humanity and whoever entered there would need a good hour to extricate themselves and their purchases.
Papers purchased I had a short but bruising encounter with the Christain Aid Lady whose desk mostly blocked the final escape route. 'you're next' she snarled at me having just taken a reluctantly proffered 20 p from Tattoo of the Month, just ahead of me. I explained that I was involved in the Christian Aid Week collection in Hutton-well actually my wife was. 'You are not your wife' she hooted, thrusting the tin towards my face. Weak vessel that I am I fumbled, selected a coin, dropped it into the gaping orifice and fled.
From a glimpse as it vanished I realised that this was no a £1 coin but 2p. But I was on my way out and no going back. The CAL shouted after me.The wind plucked away her words.
I doubt if she was thanking me for my generosity.
Visit Morrisons.
Needs must and Huttonian against his better judgment was forced into Sir M's at 10am today. Saturday morning at the start of the caravan season is not the place to be unless you are of the masocistic tendency. Mobs of hung over people staggering aggressively under loads of hair of the dog, tattoos pallid against sun lamped skin or the result of early visits to Benidor; post vomit ABSO pending youngsters fiercely objecting to doing something boring like shopping and tearing open recently purchased ciggie packets to calm their nerves-and those were the six year old girls. (The teenagers still unconscious in their vans)Fortunately I had only to penetrate the pink semi secure area where the newspapers lurk and not the Green Zone, the suicide bomber free zone-was a mass of heaving humanity and whoever entered there would need a good hour to extricate themselves and their purchases.
Papers purchased I had a short but bruising encounter with the Christain Aid Lady whose desk mostly blocked the final escape route. 'you're next' she snarled at me having just taken a reluctantly proffered 20 p from Tattoo of the Month, just ahead of me. I explained that I was involved in the Christian Aid Week collection in Hutton-well actually my wife was. 'You are not your wife' she hooted, thrusting the tin towards my face. Weak vessel that I am I fumbled, selected a coin, dropped it into the gaping orifice and fled.
From a glimpse as it vanished I realised that this was no a £1 coin but 2p. But I was on my way out and no going back. The CAL shouted after me.The wind plucked away her words.
I doubt if she was thanking me for my generosity.
Comments:
Tin-shakers annoy the hell out of me. I'll chose to whom I shall donate my heard-earned wedge, on my timescale and ticking the "Gift Aid" box of course.
Thinking back, I'm sure tin-shaking is legally classed as soliciting and hence covered by laws against prostitution (in England at least)
Thinking back, I'm sure tin-shaking is legally classed as soliciting and hence covered by laws against prostitution (in England at least)
Perhaps someone should warn Sir M's.Running a bawdy house is a serious offence ever since Victorian Values reared their ugly heads
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