Trivial Musings on the Plague

Even someone who writes about as frequently as a panda gets laid really ought to mark the plague. To mark this "difficult situation" I am doing a rare post on the 'daily blog' I was going to use to practise being a writer. It has become apparent to even a common yokel like what I am that the financial arse has rather fallen out of writing so I was in fact very clever indeed to skive from daily writing practice in favour of staring into space. My career change dreams may lie in tatters but thanks to Covid-19, the working from home dream has been achieved without me tapping as much as a single key. A rare reward for indolence.This is my plague experience so far...

I confess to being remarkably calm for someone who worries about what everyone really thought about them mangling a sentence in 1987. I am worried about aged relatives and the general death toll but otherwise taking it in my stride. There are a number of reasons for this, one is having acquired a garden. If I were still living in a flat I'd be lying in the middle of the road demanding strangers spit on me to end my battery hen hell- like a wild germs bukkake fetishist. The best advice I can offer anyone living in a flat just now is to make use of parks and other green spaces but try, no matter how much you're enjoying it, to look miserable. You must appear as if you've just learned that every leaf, every blade of grass is conspiring against you. If the authorities or any passing sneaks get the sense you're happy, you could end up before the beak. Clypes are everywhere.

What a shower of foul snakes we have in our midst. The one bright spot in all of this is that we now know who would grass us up were the country to end up a dictatorship. There aren't many surprises in my circle.  Be vigilant on Facebook, if you use the awful thing, I still do for practical reasons too dull to share here. Half my work colleagues are in something close to a frenzied masturbatory state at seeing another person in public. who maybe, might just be possibly breaking a rule. The other half are having meltdowns about 5G. I am reading it all, pulling grotesque faces and murmuring "I knew this, I always knew it".

It's a firm belief of mine that one ought to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. With that in mind I have written the names of all known clypes down under the heading "anti-government subversives" in my notepad. Like all notepads I'll carry it faithfully until I see a funny cat or a bumblebee and get distracted but when we're all quivering beneath the state jackboot in future dictatorland, we shall learn it's true value as a search of my home unearths it and takes out an entire spy network. I urge you all to do the same. We can't stop them being sneaks but there's a small chance we can murder them with notepads.

The other reason I'm handling plague lockdown quite well is that I have long viewed nature as a monster ready to take us all out on one of it's whims. I have been waiting for something like this since I first laid eyes on the Old Testament. In fact reading the entire OT substituting the word God for nature isn't a bad way to view who is in charge. Nature delights us all by throwing up fluffy animals but all those bites, stings and scratches one experiences rolling about in a field are a warning. We are ruled by a murderous lunatic with a 100% kill rate. A murderous lunatic one can't evade or thwart - look what happened to poor old Des Esseintes when he tried to cheat nature.

The final reason I'm handling it so well is the rather boring observation that I quite like being at home. Eighteen year old me would have wanted to bite old me for saying that but it's the truth. I like controlling the temperature, bossing the garden about, making tea, sprouting seeds and creating wee worlds like a slightly absent God. I like pretending to be in charge. Having a big game of control is a rather fun big lie and one that I plan to play along with as long as I'm allowed to.

I have the oddest feeling I should end on some advice, like Springers Final Thought but I don't have anything to offer and I lack the the level of interest in other people that seeking to boss them about usually entails. The best I can suggest as it that you laugh as much as possible, get out in the sun without landing yourself in hot water and fire a couple of tins at the foodbank collection point next time you're out on your permitted trip to the supermarket.

I do not understand what I have just seen.

Last night I was taken to the theatre by Maw, Paw and No1 Auntie to see a play. The whole evening had the air of a surreal anxiety induced dream. It wasn't unpleasant. It was just odd. It is very hard to explain so I think it best to simply describe what happened and allow the reader to draw their own conclusions.

We went to a boring Italian restaurant for a pre-theatre. The food was acceptable but tended towards the dull. I had a Penne Arrabbiata. Apparently Arrabbiata translates as angry or enraged, mine just seemed a bit grumpy. The pasta was nice and firm. There was a sinister waiter who called me darling and asked me why I didn't like Parmesan and at one point where I was going when I tried to escape. I really didn't see what business it was of his and found his tone altogether too rapey for my liking. I'm not suggesting he was entranced by my lumpy exterior (no one with better things to do has wanted a shot of me since 1990) but he struck me as a man who would fuck a hole in a barber's shop floor. I went all stiff and pretended to be a conifer until he went away.

Post-meal we toddled up Hope St for a pre-theatre drink in Cafe Hula which passed without incident. Then we rose from our slightly dirty table and strutted on to the theatre and that is where the evening took on a surreal air. As I was invited as an afterthought I was seated at the end of the row away from my family. We were in the very front row so had an abundance of leg room. This also gave my mother room to start darting about. I was dreamily staring into space when all of a sudden my mother appeared in front of me and roared "DO YOU WANT SOME WERTHERS ORGINAL?" before I had the chance to say "obviously not" a handful of Werthers were thrust into my lap. I thought the woman sitting next to was going to pass out laughing. I should stress this was before curtain up. No show was harmed during this startling episode. I gathered the Werthers and placed them in my handbag because I am not a litterbug and resumed staring into space. After about a minute my mother appeared in front of me with "A BOTTLE OF TAP WATER IN CASE YOU GET THIRSTY". I turned to the near hysterical woman next to me and said "I only just met her in the foyer".

It was at this point the woman sitting immediately behind me came to my attention. She was most aggrieved that the show was a whole three minutes late starting. I expect they were waiting for my mother to sit down and stop zipping about the stalls with boiled sweets. I shall refer to the woman immediately behind me as "Backbird" as she will feature a lot and typing WIBM in full is tiresome.

At last the curtain rose and things took place on the stage. I should probably mention at this point that the show starred TV's Shane Richie. This seemed to blow Backbird's mind. She stage whispered to the poor chap next to her who I suppose I should call Backchap "It's Alfie Moon". Backchap seized his chance to look like a boffin and replied "I think it's Shane Richie". This sailed over Backbird's head so she replied "I wonder if Kat is going to come on". On and on it went Backbird spent the whole of the first act tutting, puffing and muttering "that isn't my Roy Grace, I've read the books that's Alfie Moon -where's Kat, Alfie, where is Nana Moon?".

I thought Shane Richie did a competent job depicting a fairly standard issue, harassed, middle aged detective. This wouldn't be a problem for me until the end of the play. Backbird on the other hand was enraged. I too, find the world's habit of failing to measure up to the things I imagine somewhat tiresome and I expect it has caused me to act the goat at times but I've never disrupted a play with my witterings.* I am better than Backbird.

Any hope I had that Backbird might break with convention and remain silent during half time was misplaced. She spent the entire interval muttering "I've read all the books" before going on to insist that Backchap's friend had taken part in initiation rituals in order to join a motorcycle gang, specifically gang raping a woman with the rest of the gang. Backchap was unconvinced by her startling assertion and stuck to the line that his friend wasn't in a gang but just went out to "Loch Lomond and stuff" with "a couple of mates who are into bikes". Backbird was not to be deterred, it turns out she had "done a lot and I mean A LOT of reading about biker gangs". Well there's an open and shut case Backchap's Leader of the Pack is a rapist who ought be drowned.

I will pause for reflection here. I have often sneered at people who don't read and snarked that dumbos ought to read a book but should they? What if Lady Bracknell was right when she said "I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone"? Maybe by shaming stupid folk, we're causing them to read and become overexcited. Perhaps we should celebrate thickos and allow them to live untroubled by knowledge. I don't claim to have all the answers but I am prepared to support anything that makes thickos quiet and isn't murderous. Let them live quietly and happily in their community.

Anyway the curtain shot back up and the play rattled along. I don't want to give anything away so I shall avoid details. For me trying to work out whodunnit was a bit like one of those annoying fox,chicken, bag of corn, farmer over the river problems in that I was certain I could work out the answer if I had to but I can't see the point in working it out because someone is going to tell me the answer. For anyone interested my answer to the fox,chicken, bag of corn, farmer over the river problem is as follows. The fox and chicken form a union, toss the farmer into the river, split the corn 50/50, take the boat and have adventures. The real answer is tedious and involves too much back and forth. I don't like things like that.

It was the last few scenes that startled me. Naturally we established whodunnit. Then it all got a bit camp and overacted to the point of being quite the hoot. Shane Richie appeared oblivious to wild acting going on around him and continued to play it straight. The thing is I honestly don't know who I should praise or snort at here. If it was meant to be a big, camp hoot then I shall snort at the Richie, if it was meant to be straight drama then I shall snort at everyone else. Either way it was an ephemeral goggler and I rather liked it in the same way I enjoy a good Jackie Collins.

I did mean to write a proper restaurant and theatre review but then I typed all these other words. Should we teach Secretarial Studies to compulsive ramblers? Join me here on PONTEFRACT next week for the answers.



* Well there was the 1979 nativity play in Penilee Nursery but it deserved it, I was hopelessly miscast, the costumes were a joke anyone in my position would have spent the entire morning sobbing and staring at their feet.

I do like a bit of perfume.

I have always loved perfume or rather I have always loved some perfume. Lets not fool ourselves a good deal of it is weak fruity water that someone bought in Asda because it was on special. I should ignore that thin gruel if I were you and concentrate on the good stuff.

Having inexplicably been born into the wrong social class for my needs, I have always regarded perfume as a distress call to my lost aristocratic parents. I like to imagine my aristo folks have been frantic with worry since the nanny mislaid me in a train station. They haven't, they don't exist, there was no nanny, there was no station, there were no aristocratic parents, I was a random burden placed on people who hoped for better, God is dead, no one is coming, I am alone.

Recently, living in a damp, collapsing flat, early middle age and the realisation that my entire career is one enormous, pointless dead end have taken their toll and I find myself disappointed I didn't die in my sleep each morning. I do not want to live this life but I'm too whatever it is I am to change it.

I really don't understand very much about my life. Everything I ever tried at or felt passionately about failed and as I'm by the halfway mark I don't see that changing. I made my bed but I didn't mean to make it this way and there doesn't seem to be any better way available to make it. I was trying, really trying. I'm stuck and marooned.

A sensual, transporting scent to mask the whiff of this rotten gutter is what is required. If I can't be somewhere else, somewhere better then I'd at least like to smell like I am. With that in mind these are my current favourite perfumes in no particular order.

Penhaligon's Halfeti- An unusual choice for me as it was only released in 2015 so is dead modern. It also appears to be unisex, which I tend to avoid as I feel disappointing enough without anyone getting the notion I have a cock. Nevertheless it's a rich, oudy, smoky, woody scent that smells how I'd like to feel in life.

Guerlain's: L'Heure Bleue- My all time favourite, it's powdery, odd, haunting, ideal for a cold day and feminine without being a lisping twit about it. If it were a woman it could go in go a bar and drink alone making it very much a bird I can do business with.

Guerlain's Shalimar- As above but with added sweet vanilla. It is Barbara Windsor's signature perfume.

Coty-  L'Aimant- Deeply underrated because it is as cheap as chips and very old. This is a powdery, comforting, sweet treat of a perfume. It doesn't last very long on the skin and needs topped up throughout the day but it's a beautiful scent.

Yves Saint Laurent- Rive Gauche- This manages to smell clean but probably up for a knee trembler at the same time. It's soapy and comforting and reminds me of a dirty Nivea. I am very fond and go through stupid amounts of it. A fine day perfume.

Estee Lauder- Youth Dew- Smells like the late 70s, perms, nights out being babysat, excitement.

Dior-Poison- The first time I caught a whiff of this I was being tortured in a bathroom. The slightly overweight tall girl was pressing my hand on to a hot radiator whilst the thin and slightly mannish one was trying to force me to say "I am an ugly spastic" and threatening to burn all my skin off. I can admit now that I was somewhat distressed by their behaviour towards me but was determined to stare into space and feign indifference. After a while they got bored and picked up a roundish, purple bottle and started trying to spray it into my eyes. It was Poison! I turned my head to the wall so most of it went on my hair and in my ear. I immediately concluded that I wanted to smell like this for the rest of my life but would prefer not to be tortured in a bathroom. I broke free, went home and wept partly from grief at the way I'd been treated and partly from joy at how fucking foxy I smelled. A little goes a long way but it's a no holds barred whopper of a perfume, a French Joan Crawford in a bottle.


Honourable mentions: Vivienne Westwood- Let it Rock & Boudoir, Chanel No 5, Revlon-Charlie Red, Kate Moss- Vintage Muse (smells like rotten fruit and fucking for about 3 minutes) L'Artisan Perfumer- Timbuktu & Rose Privee , Cacherel.- Lou Lou

Far From the Right Time.

Today, in the spirit of adventure I did something I have never done before. You'll think me mad but I went to the theatre in the afternoon. To be clear I have been in a theatre before and not just for pantos. I have have seen operas, ballets, comedians and the odd play. However I have always waited until the evening to indulge. I now realise that pure instinct kept me from experiencing the most frightful ordeal.

Oh it wasn't the show. The show was quite the hoot and along with the wine provided the only happiness I experienced during the hell of the matinee. It's hard to describe what I've been through but I shall do my best to set it out in my own words. It may well be needed in some ground breaking legal case in the very near future.

I have always loved the word matinee. It's redolent of lovely things, like Dirk Bogarde twinkling down from a cinema poster. The reality is far from lovely. We all know that strangers are just foul irritants we haven't met yet but when one is forced to encounter them, I now know it is less painful to do so at night. The evening theatre audience is rendered docile by a wee pre-theatre and a half bottle of wine. The matinee crowd want the back of their legs slapping.

I have spent four decades being herded around with you cattle but not once have I ever encountered such a relentlessly irritating bunch and believe me I've met some fiends on the way.

Naturally I took my seat early on. I was positioned on a fairly empty row Q only to find myself trapped between an awkward middle aged "date" and a family. I thought I might die. Row P was occupied by arthritic pensioners who shot up and massaged their lower backs and upper buttocks, quite without warning. Everyone in row P appeared to be called "Maggie". The one with the "tramp stamp" kept telling us to "keep smiling". I didn't. She was bossy and I was compelled to defy her.

I can only assume someone had starved this assortment of monsters before they entered the theatre. Other than the sort of eating disorder that ends in one being removed from ones digs in a crane, there is no explanation for the relentless rustling and chewing. On and on it went. Splatty chew, rustle, splatty chew, splatty chew, audible fart, rustle, chew. Right through both acts. That would never happen in the evening.

It was something of a relief when the curtain finally rose. Rather, it should have been a relief but the nasally child weasel next to me had memorised both script and songs. I thought about telling it I was best friends with Rose West or that I could get it sent to live with Karen Mathews but I kept quiet and tried to cause deafness in my right ear by sheer will power. After a time, I either deafened myself to the right or the creature ran out of puff and shut up.

Of course trouble flared up when the odd man to my left spotted the wine in my handbag and started loudly whispering to his partner that "other people" had "carry outs". He was a rotter and an ill informed rotter at that. I did not have a "carry out", I had a blue package ticket which comes with a small bottle. A small bottle that I required in order to deal with my surroundings.  I had cause to curse this gentleman again during the interval when he remarked to the red faced woman he was with that I was "having another one but not from a bottle".  I think he was jealous but it was medicinal and necessary. Like a wheelchair ramp.

Contributing to my sense of being hemmed in by cunts was Row R to my rear. This was all in the stalls. I dread to think what was taking place in the dress circle. Anyway Row R was occupied by hair tossing, up speaking, weak bladders. They barely got through ten minutes without clambering out their row, roaring sorry, like it's a question and vanishing. Only to return and do it all again. Repeatedly.

Show 3/5

Audience 0/5

I shall never enter a theatre in the daytime again.

A short play about God and the world of the humans.

I have written a short one act play in which our Lord God receives an update on the humans and their antics. It was inspired by a picture of a pink horse which clip clopped it's way on to my Twitter feed and made me have to go in to another room to be upset because people were being mean to a horse.

God: Hey Archangel Gabriel, what are the humans up to this weather?

Archangel Gabriel: Well they're planning to put Trump in charge of the USA and some guy has painted a horse pink.

God: I see.

Archangel Gabriel: Thunderbolts?

God: Fuck them. No warning call. Flood the fuckers. Drown them all.

Archangel Gabriel: Righto chief.

What kind of arse witted monster does this?

Back away from the words, you sweaty moon units, or I'll burst yer baw.

I'm in a fucking throbber of a mood and feel keen to share the misery. I declare today that football bores the arse off me. It's not footballs fault, it's just that it doesn't move me and that's OK. Despite this I remain tolerant, I avoid public transport when I know a match is happening so as to avoid being verbally abused and jostled for no reason. I even once wrote a stiff letter to my MSP about the Offensive Behaviour at Football Act, defending the rights of zoomers to sing any old shite they like at each other on account of free speech and that. Besides, what mad Christian sects get up to in their own playpens is none of my beeswax.

 When some mouth breather stands outside my window farting out some sectarian or boak inducing sentimental pish at 3am. I lie silently raging at the inconsiderate thundercunt for waking me up. I don't call the police or give in to my baser urge to behead the bunnyrimmer and kick his severed head into a bin on account of tolerating different lifestyles like a civilized human. Through my shining example, a world where everyone simply minds their own business will be born.

 I know I'm just a bag with holes instead of a cock and a team like a real person but is there any chance baw zoomers could try a wee bit of tolerance towards me? It irks me that folk are getting punted from The Herald on account of some sort of Rangers related moon units throwing a tantrum. Who the fuck asked Rangers to edit the Sunday Herald? I don't want to be snooty but I can't think of another way to say it: football types are a tad too ITV for broadsheet, hiring and firing. That doesn't make them bad people, my Auntie May would pass out if someone put BBC4 on in her house and she's a lovely woman but I wouldn't pick her to edit The Herald.

Reading is my thing, my sport, if you will. I don't interrupt football matches demanding everyone listen to me reading a bit of P.G Wodehouse or a particularly hooty chapter from Three Men in a Boat, so I think it only fair that football reciprocates and leaves me alone. I'm resigned to these chimpanzees being unable to use public transport quietly, all I ask is one corner of my life to be football free.

I've done nothing but avoid eye contact and mind my own business with these roasters, I've even taken action to defend their right to sing demented songs at football matches. I just like a bit of Angela Haggerty on a Sunday and given the shite I've quietly tolerated being flung at me by inconsiderate titwanks over the years I think I'd more than earned my right to read her. Any chance we can have readers editing the papers rather than thin skinned football fannybaws?

Just a few of my thoughts. Here's another FUCK ALL SPORT EXCEPT BOXING, SPEEDWAY, DOGS AND DARTS. 

I came here to kick gum and chew minds and I'm all out of gum because of YOUR stupid Christmas.

The festive period is in many ways a rather trying one for me. I'm not a Christian so the religious element doesn't set off any internal fireworks. It strikes me, as I look around that there is plenty of food on offer throughout the year so the prospect of a large plate of things I don't especially want to eat leaves me quite unmoved and more often than not longing for a decent channa dahl. Pretty much everything else folk are compelled to do at Christmas is more enjoyable at other times of the year when it's done in the spirit of spontaneous giggles and not out of obligation. 

However I accept that I am outnumbered and am happy enough to quietly go along with things. In a saner world than the one we inhabit, people would regard me as a fine example of tolerance. People would say "look at Jennifer, she secretly thinks this is a bit dull but she's letting us get on with the festivities instead of organising death squads to kill us all. We could all learn so much from her". As the world is not sane, people say "bah humbug". It may be they are excited at being able to quote a small fragment of classic literature or it may be they heard someone else equally irritating saying it and decided to join in. Like a parrot. A big dull parrot that can't even be bothered to grow fine plumage for us all to admire but has the effrontery to lecture other folk about jollity. That sort of parrot. 

Many years ago I witnessed a particularly stunning "bah humbug". It's the sort of "bah humbug" that I think about whenever I'm being verbally abused by a spunk box for not being a Christian and laugh like a drain. That in itself is somewhat surprising because the bah humbugger on this occasion was the most humourless person I have ever had the misfortune to meet. I used to call her "No Laughs Cath" behind her back, so remarkable was her complete lack of any discernible sense of humour. 

Allow me to set the scene. There are three women in an office, I am one of them, the other has just returned from work after the death of her mother from pancreatic cancer and the final but most astonishing one is the bah humbugger extraordinaire, Ol' No Laughs Cath herself. 

All is peaceful in the office when the 'bah humbugger' appears in a Santa hat and a ton of tinsel, hell bent on sucking every last drop of joy from the room. She immediately demands to know what we're all doing for Christmas I mumble something about visiting my mother whilst arranging my features in to something that I hope will deter any follow up questions. The other woman says she doesn't feel much like doing anything on account of the recent, agonising death of her mother from a terrible illness. 

I must confess I don't always know what to say to the recently bereaved but I'm pretty sure "bah humbug" isn't the most appropriate thing to say. In the unlikely event I did say something as catastrophically insensitive I wouldn't then smirk at my victim with a big toddler on the pot face like I was waiting on a round of applause. Reader, No Laughs did it. She dropped the big "bah humbug" on a recently bereaved orphan. 

I was immediately at war with myself, a storm of conflicting emotions. The urge to shriek with laughter, fought the urge to shriek out of total shock with a twinge of rage and disbelief sneaking up on the rear. The poor, recently bereaved orphan appeared too numb to feel very much and just said "oh I know". Having secured the silence of the room No Laughs then held court about how amazing her Christmas going to be as all her family would be there. I didn't comment but it sounded like a hellish gathering of terrible tools.

Until that astonishing "bah humbug" I used to be quite hurt by that jibe. I don't imagine anyone enjoys being likened to the repellent, mean spirited and stingy character of Scrooge and on that score I am no different but I realise that was because I hadn't thought it through. For a start it's highly unlikely the "bah humbuggers" have actually read 'A Christmas Carol' and have just latched on to a cliche large enough to match their out sized acrylic BHS  jumpers because they are actually too stupid to say anything else. I should be feeding them Trill and calling them Cheeky Boy, rather than paying any mind to their ridiculous banter. 

It is also worth noting that when one observes their behaviour throughout the year they're quite Scrooge like themselves. The person who sits next to you at work and says "at they end of the day, they weans were put on the boat by their parents" is a "Bah Humbugger" and no mistake. The twit in popcorn knit who says "at the end of the day, charity begins at home" is a whopping great "Bah Humbugger" The fat one with strange ankle swellings who says "at the end of the day, this is a Christian country and they should fit in with our ways" is not only a throbbing bell end but a "Bah Humbugger". What I'm trying to say here is that I can use graphs to show that I'm essentially harmless.Yet stupid, angry zoo animals in slacks without the grace to be cute, torment innocent bystanders everyday, unmolested by the jollity police.  

Let us imagine we lived in a better world. Let's imagine that when you said you couldn't be arsed dancing at the minute people said "hurrah, mind our drinks while we do The Slosh" and one could sit on their arse, giving the odd wee wave. Let's imagine some spunkbracket brings out the karaoke gear and instead of demanding others join in, they just invite folk to join in only if it would make them happy or a bit pleased. You'll think I'm BONKERS but let's imagine a world in which everyone simply minded their own business and did their own thing.  

Failing that, just know that when you harass me to JOIN IN WITH YOUR FORCED JOLLITY I am calling you a weaselflange and a rabbitspoon in my mind. Also know that I'm rather enjoying myself staring in to the stars until the moment you ruin my life, my evening, my hour by cranking out out a great big "bah humbug" in my face. If your reindeer games fail to bring all the boys to the yard, either you are the boys are in the wrong and that is hardly my fault. Let me smirk quietly from the banquettes. 

 

Shopping is a terrible chore, not a hobby.

I was in work a few weeks back helping a lady edit her CV and was startled to note that she'd listed shopping under hobbies and interests. I aim to be non judgemental but it's sometimes hard to suppress my true nature, so I judged. I judged harshly. I won't go through all my thoughts about the lady concerned, they tend towards the uncharitable. I will just say I have renamed her The Aubergine and filed her away in my head, under 'Vaguely Absurd Objects'.

Shopping isn't a hobby. It's a chore. There is no pleasure in it, with the possible exception of pet shops and that is only because they have real animals in them. Although after about five minutes of cooing at the animals I get the guilt and feel sorry for them. Imagine being guinea pig in a pet shop and spending your day in a cage with big, silly human faces looming at you and making stupid clicking noises. That is no life at all. It's bad enough being in a shop but being caged and then gawped and clicked at in a shop at must be even worse.

I was once held hostage at a cosmetics counter by a woman who made stupid noises, though mercifully she didn't cage me and I was allowed to go free after agreeing to pay the ransom which entailed purchasing some sort of face primer that I didn't want until the woman told me I had abnormally vast pores and made me feel self conscious. I wonder if pet shops use similar techniques to trap the animals in the cages. Do they sneak up behind kittens and roar 'get in the cage, those stripes make your arse look enormous'? We just don't know.  I googled 'How to start a pet shop' but no information on animal trapping techniques came up in the first results so it's clear there is a cover up of some sort in play.

Of course pet shops aren't the only sort of shops. You also get department stores. The first thing one normally encounters is the cosmetics and perfume bit. This department is staffed mostly by sharks. Naturally they do the sharks up like women, as sharks are not widely regarded as aspirational but as soon as the store shuts the 'women' return to their true shark form and swim about in tanks until their next shift. Rather like the way Princess Michael of Kent turns in to a lizard when no one is looking.

As long as you are in the cosmetics and perfume bit, you must remain in a state of constant wary alertness. One wrong pause to look at a particularly extravagant counter display and BAM! they've got you. A shark-woman will appear and somehow talk you into spending absurd sums of money on things you neither want nor need. Do not make eye contact and move quickly is the best advice I can offer.

The ladies clothing department is less dangerous but a good deal more frustrating. It is generally full of foul tempered men who position themselves in front of the very thing you want to look at. I'd love to be able to blame the patriarchy and issue a clarion call for men to be hurled down a drain but I cannot. It saddens me to report that women bring the men in to the ladies clothing department. I can offer no explanation for the women and their perverse behaviour. At first I thought it was to make the men angry but realised that I had no evidence the men weren't angry before they were brought to the ladies clothing department. I did wonder if it was the grown up version of the teenage girls' practice of taking a larger, plainer friend clothes shopping as a bullying exercise but there's no real evidence to support that either. It could be a punishment or it could be an elaborate wind up. I doubt we will ever know.

There is also a men's clothing department, it's generally quite easy to get round, probably because all the men are 'blouse blocking' in the ladies section. It is quite vexing for me that the least annoying stretch of shop is the one I have the least reason to use but that is the hand life has dealt me. I shan't linger in gents clothing. I am not a shirt blocker.

Moving on, there is usually a household bit and a toy bit. Household is so dreary I can't even be bothered to have an opinion on it. The toy bit is pretty good until some child goes off on one and starts screaming the place down because it wants Lego or Malevolent Frogman Steve. I don't know if Malevolent Frogman Steve exists but my ears were assaulted by a child repeatedly roaring "MALEVOLENT FROOOOGMAN STEEEEEEEVE" in a shop a while back so Steve is real to that child at least.  

You get little shops too. Like ironmongers or hardware shops. These shops tend to exist for many years before announcing they are closing down. When this happens everyone gets upset but fails to see any connection between them doing all their shopping in vast shopping centres and little shops closing down. Sometimes little shops try to entice customers by being friendly and chatty, this is a mistake. When you go down the friendly, chatty route you drive the customers away to the big, impersonal stores where they can shop in peace and instead attract lonely people who haven't received a Christmas card since 1986 and have no money. A valuable service to the wider community but not a profitable one for the shopkeeper.

Probably the shop one encounters most is what they incorrectly call the supermarket. There is very little super about these establishments at all. The idea behind supermarkets is pretty good. What is meant to happen is that you get everything you want under one roof. What actually happens is that you'll get a few things that you want, some inferior versions of some other things you want and then have to go elsewhere for the rest because there is no customer demand for it and you are not a customer but an inconvenient oaf with obscure tastes.

Supermarkets like to pose as our big pal in the community by putting up a public noticeboard where you can view adverts for second hand tricycles, dogs and trumpets. There's no actual evidence these notices are placed by members of the public. Knowing how ruthless supermarkets are, I reckon they would have you shot if you tried to sell a three piece suite or a trombone on their premises. I'd stick to Gumtree, it's not worth the risk, no one can take on the supermarkets. Not even farmers and they are red faced mad men with guns.

I could do all of my shopping online if I hadn't had such a peculiar upbringing. Occasionally as a child I would calmly and reasonably point out that I did not wish to do something, to which my mother invariably responded that life was full of doing things one doesn't want to and that I should just get on with the thing I didn't want to do. Consequently I fear something terrible will befall me if I devote myself to pleasure by doing the online shopping. Then there is the haunting fear that the things you order online are picked and packed by badly paid people on strange shifts in a horrible warehouse and I don't want to put them to any additional trouble.

I suppose I could ask The Aubergine to do my shopping since she enjoys it so much but she strikes me as the type to come back with goose fat when you asked for jam. There is also the whole ethical dimension of taking advantage of an obvious simpleton to consider. Sadly until the Japanese invent a suitably advanced robot or a magic wand I am stuck with the chore NOT the hobby of shopping.