March Madness

Good grief… the award for most muttered sentence in Waitrose this morning (insert a tut and a sigh to precede) goes to: ‘Oh, what the..? All the tea’s gone’. Yep. Gone. Not a decent teabag to be had, unless you like tea that tastes like a bunch of flowers.

Don’t even get me started on the bog rolls. The supplies were wiped out, if you’ll forgive the pun. I didn’t even need any but went to have a look anyway, just so I could feel indignant. I know, I need to get out more. If I were the cynical type, I’d put forward my conspiracy theory that coronavirus has been unleashed on the world by the evil genius that is Andrex. Cute puppies, my arse. In our new apocalyptic age, instead of peddling drugs on street corners, there’ll be seedy types with their secret stash of loo roll. ‘Awright, darlin’… you want a bit o’ the good stuff? A pound a patch to you…’

Oddly, there wasn’t any flour to be had either. I imagine all the Waitrose types are waiting for the slightest hint of a sniffle, just so they can self-isolate and free up some time to finally sort that sourdough starter they’ve been meaning to try for ages. Come to think of it, I feel a bit of a tickle coming on…

(In other news, the first chapter of the novel has been written; 3,500 words done, 86,500 to go. Perhaps I’d better stop taking photos of toilet rolls and get on with it, eh?)

Greenwich Mean Time

I’m beginning to think all time is mean time.  Whatever happened to me-time?  Life’s a tricky business, isn’t it?

‘Ooh, it’s been a rollercoaster’, that’s what they say on telly.   Sounds about right; we’re strapped in – usually against our will – then hurtled manically about, unable to get off no matter how much we scream.  If we get to the end without crying or wetting our pants in public, it’s deemed a great success.  And let’s face it, if you’ve had children, you don’t escape those indignities anyway.  Crumbs.  What a ride, eh?

So here I am; my last blog post was about new year resolutions and now the Christmas lights are lit in town.  On that note, permit me a teeny rant: what has happened to ‘proper’ Christmas?  You know what I mean: chestnuts roasting, the Salvation Army banging out some carols and Santa arriving by sleigh?

‘THANK YOU IPSWICH’, yelled the singer onstage in Ipswich last night, punching the air as a few mums watched on with their wailing children, waiting for the Crimbo tree switch-on.  The square, in the meantime, was ablaze with colour as toddlers waved their fluorescent plastic purchases.  To be fair, nothing screams festive more to me than a strobing neon sword.

Grumpy old woman?  Moi?  Nah.  But I do think I might have a new career planning proper Christmas markets.  I’ll add that to next year’s to-do list, along with all the things I didn’t do on the last list.  Anyway, there are still 39 days, 11 hours and 24 minutes left of this decade.  Plenty of time.  No one wants to peak too soon, right?