Saturday, 19 September 2015

Is it personal?

I was out early this morning, into town on the bus into the supermarket and settling into trying to remember the  things not on my list.  (I know, there shouldn't be any).

Oh yes, I thought, cheese, and headed off toward the battalions of cheeses not a care in the world.

Suddenly there was a rush of movement from a shelf up above my head to the left and moving too slowly to avoid it, I received the full benefit of a plastic tray of pots of cream which hit the floor with a crash which split most of them, spraying me with a liberal coating of thick gooey cream.

My jacket, skirt, shoes legs and bag were all covered.

A nearby shelf-filler rushed to my aid with a roll of paper towels which made things a hundred times worse, and when I said it needed to be wet wipes the response was a blank look.

I headed for the manager told him the tale whereupon he produced a large pack of wet wipes, apologised profusely for the behaviour of the wayward cream pots and offered to have my jacket professionally cleaned (they have a dry cleaning facility within the store).

When I said I wanted just to get home and put everything into the washing machine (myself included), he gave me £10 for the taxi home and said, "if the marks don't wash out bring the clothes in here and we'll get them out for you"

Needless to say I was barely through the door when my clothes were off and into the machine and I collapsed into a chair (in underwear only) with a coffee.

My brain tells me these things happen to lots of people on a daily basis, but somehow it feels as though I am being singled out.

Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean it's not true.

Saturday, 12 September 2015


In case anyone is in any doubt, Jeremy Corbyn is now officially the leader of the labour party.

I have never been a member of this august body since, when asked where my political affiliations lay, I have always replied, "somewhere to the left of Lenin".

For me the previous incumbents of the labour leadership have never quite convinced me of their desire to actively improve the day-to-day lives of their fellow citizens.

And, of course, in the case of one particular such person, have led their country nose first, into war.

Any member of the party who had a vote and failed to use it has, in my view, no right to complain if they now have a leader whose aims do not match their own.

Perhaps I am just feeling unreasonably euphoric because England have once more trounced Australia in the cricket field, but no, there is, rising somewhere in my ancient frame, a slightly nervous glimmer of hope that this time there may be a real chance for the left of the political sphere to justify its opinions.

I am neither an astute politician, nor a total imbecile, merely an old woman seeing a light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.