Who’s the boss?

Friday July 15, 2005

We kept the Brief Encounter element of our station waiting room visit to a minimum, concentrating instead on the last minute “Did you remember” and “You haven’t forgot” questions. Nothing had been forgot of course, but you have to observe the rituals. Then the train came in, we did our fare-you-wells, and off went Graham on his five hour journey to Somerset.

My first port of call was to the close-by ASDA store, where I wanted to pick up a second cool box and provisions for my lunch and supper. I was halfway round when a great claxon-clamour went off, then faded, to be replaced by a young woman’s voice, desparately trying to sound calm, stating that there was an emergency and that all customers should leave their shopping and proceed immediately to the nearest exit. Oh, botheration. What is it with me and ASDA that I can’t shop there without some small drama?

So, I pulled my stick out of the cart, and plodded off to the exit, learning on the way that it was a “bomb scare”. The incident failed to make the news so I presume it was a hoax. There’s going to be a few of them for a while, I suppose, and I can’t think of a better place than ASDA to receive one. Nevertheless, hopefully, the miscreant will be swiftly apprehended and dealt with severely. Me, I’d give ’em severe alright. With a sharp implement in the general area of their delicate parts. Sans anaesthetic. I make no apology for this. Those of us who’ve suffered real bombs up close and personal don’t generally have much in the way of forgiveness for those who think it fun to create a pretend alert.

Denied access to ASDA, then, not that it’s much in the way of denial, I took myself off to Tesco where I got my provisions for the weekend, adjusting my plans in-flight to take in another ASDA visit on Monday. Perhaps this time I’ll get my cool box without further incident.

Back home over the country roads, window down in search of some air on yet another hot day, sun blazing down from a cloudless sky.

Dolly joined me on the bed for my afternoon siesta, snuggling up close as close in a fiercely affectionate cuddle of mega proportions. I suspect that’s going to be the way of things round here for the next couple of months.

When I woke it was a little cooler so I put it to Dolly as I sipped my wake-up coffee that I needed to choose between a piano lesson and cutting the grass. Her reaction left no question in my mind that the grass ought to come first.

It was my third solo cut of the lawns, easier than the last, just as that had been easier than the first. My time now, excluding rests, is down to half-an-hour and I ended up feeling chipper and with energy to spare. Pretty good going, I told myself.

Following on my shower I discovered the foolishness of attempting a piano lesson after cutting grass. Can’t do it. Pushing a mower, no matter how light, leaves my hands temporarily rather tender. There’s no real pain involved but my finger and wrist joints, even though I’d soaked them in hot water prior to hitting the keys, were not up to the job.

“Botheration, Dolly,” I said, giving up in disgust after the umpteenth failed attempt to work through the first exercise. “It’s all your fault.”

If you could have seen the look on her face you’d wonder who was boss around here.



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