This Is The Goo I've Got

My sister is giving me the cold shoulder.

I turned around and saw her holding my diary. I enquired as to whether she had been reading it.

She threw it at me and told me to fuck off. She stormed out of the room.

Yes, she is on the blob ((Yes, it’s not the most politically correct term ever. Stop disturbing me mid-rant with your sensitivities.)). How did you guess?

I’m really looking forward to spending this evening in the pub with her. Much as I look forward to incontinence in my twilight years.

One of the soap dispensers in the toilets here seems to have been overfilled, and is currently oozing pink goo into a puddle on the floor.

It’s like a scene from Ghostbusters.

As I was leaving the toilets, there was a man stood at the urinal, taking a piss. So I clutched at the towel dispenser behind him very noisily with the maximum of fuss, and listened as the flow of urine stopped.

Poor guy. It’s not his fault that I stepped into his life today, if only for a second. But if I want to make a reputation for myself as a despot, I have to start somewhere. And I haven’t really progressed much since the days when I used to play the bad guy in the school plays, so it needs brushing up on.

With ten minutes until 9am, I pulled up to the front of the supermarket looking for a quick operation. In, grab breakfast, out. No fuss. All four parent-and-child spaces were vacant – the whole car park, in fact, was reasonably quiet. So I flicked the steering wheel to the left, grabbed the handbrake, and executed a beautiful slide sideways into one of the four parent-and-child spacesyes, this is a lie. Well done for spotting that.

As the tyre smoke cleared, an old boy (60, perhaps?) walked past my front end, either admiring my beautiful custom front radiator grille, or noting down my registration.

Five minutes later, the old boy would have gone up to the customer service desk in the supermarket, and helpfully informed them that some young scallywag driving a Golf with the registration XXXX XXX was abusing their facilities.

The customer services desk, obviously, would be horrified. What if four single mothers turned up at once, and all insisted on a space by the front door? That would not suffice. Have they any clamps? No. Then they must phone the police, trace the car registered XXXX XXX and commence court proceedings.

What probably ACTUALLY happened was that this guy went up to the customer services desk and helpfully informed them of the atrocity taking place on their asphalt. To which a middle aged blonde woman who had been working since 7am and had already had to cope with two screaming babies and a smashed jar of beetroot would grab this old codger by the lapels, pull his face close to hers, and spit at him “I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.”

I think I’m just veiling my fear of prosecution with a sheen of humour. I’m quaking on the inside.

I was just a few metres from home, really. It was dark, as it is now. I was thinking about what needs doing this evening, as one does on the way home.

A strange creature was coming the other way, up the opposite pavement. Like a dog, but with a feline demeanour.

It paused outside a driveway, looked at me as if to say “I’m not a big cat, you chuffing idiot! I’m a fox!”

“Right,” I said “A fox. Well, I’ll see you around sometime then.”

The fox rolled its eyes and turned into the driveway.