My time-management seems to be improving to such an extent that not only did I make it into the office well before 8.30am today, despite having spent the evening at an unusually tame CPS party, but I am now a full 3 days early with my annual bout of Christmas Cold. I have no need for fancy-dress, managing a very realistic version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Misery Guts.
I had every intention of cheerfully hitting the shops for the last late night shop, buying chestnuts from a thermally-protected street-vendor, and snapping up last minute bargains to surprise and delight my loved ones. I even toyed with the idea of braving Tesco at about midnight when the most manic of shoppers would be in bed or surreptiously adding even more bulbs to their already grossly-overladen electrical circuits to once again outdo their neighbours before morning. Only those incredibly busy and intrepid folk, such as I, would be left casually ambling along the aisles, leisurely selecting the freshly-stocked veg and seasonal hams, perhaps sipping a glass of mulled wine from a promotions lady working nights courtesy of the newly-relaxed licensing laws, free of the elbows and trolley ram-raiders that appear from almost nowhere at this time of year.
Instead I stocked up with some Lemsip ( and a large bottle of Disaronno, for medicinal purposes), half-heartedly threw some wrapping paper into my trolley and then beat the hell out of there as quick as I could. Such was my haste, that it was only when having filled up my car with petrol, to avoid having to venture out of the house again next week did I realise that I had left my hand-bag, the expensive Moschino one, complete with all my house and work keys, purse, assorted passports, tissues of varying degrees of sogginess and a couple of driving licences either at the check-out or in a trolley bay.
I am normally very careful to observe the doctor's advice not to exercise or risk increasing my blood pressure in any way when suffering from a cold. It strains the heart apparently and lengthens recovery time. Tonight I took off across that car park like Colin Jackson on his way to a dance class. The CCTV footage is sure to look like a Hollywood chase movie, me dodging people-carriers and grocery-laden juggernaut trolleys, intent only on finding my prized handbag before some other drongo who would pocket the unused Tesco vouchers, give my Styla lipstick to his 6-year old kid for her dolls, and try and fill his family's stockings with my hard-earned cash ( he'd probably have done ok too having just increased my overdraft in case Martian turned up without any cash again last night), whilst ditching the vintage Italian designer goods in a litter bin.
It does pay to exercise after all. One of the trolley men recognized my anxiety and directed me to the security guard. Hallelujah! It was saved. Nothing taken, just a few extra calories expended and some perspiration lost in the pursuit. My face redder than my already glowing nose, I limped back home, pulled my frumpiest thickest dressing-gown out of the wardrobe and made myself a hot lemon and paracetamol cocktail with an almond liquer chaser.
If I drink enough of the stuff, I might rally in time to face the Christmas Eve throngs. If I'm really lucky, I might drink so much that I don't wake up til February.
I had every intention of cheerfully hitting the shops for the last late night shop, buying chestnuts from a thermally-protected street-vendor, and snapping up last minute bargains to surprise and delight my loved ones. I even toyed with the idea of braving Tesco at about midnight when the most manic of shoppers would be in bed or surreptiously adding even more bulbs to their already grossly-overladen electrical circuits to once again outdo their neighbours before morning. Only those incredibly busy and intrepid folk, such as I, would be left casually ambling along the aisles, leisurely selecting the freshly-stocked veg and seasonal hams, perhaps sipping a glass of mulled wine from a promotions lady working nights courtesy of the newly-relaxed licensing laws, free of the elbows and trolley ram-raiders that appear from almost nowhere at this time of year.
Instead I stocked up with some Lemsip ( and a large bottle of Disaronno, for medicinal purposes), half-heartedly threw some wrapping paper into my trolley and then beat the hell out of there as quick as I could. Such was my haste, that it was only when having filled up my car with petrol, to avoid having to venture out of the house again next week did I realise that I had left my hand-bag, the expensive Moschino one, complete with all my house and work keys, purse, assorted passports, tissues of varying degrees of sogginess and a couple of driving licences either at the check-out or in a trolley bay.
I am normally very careful to observe the doctor's advice not to exercise or risk increasing my blood pressure in any way when suffering from a cold. It strains the heart apparently and lengthens recovery time. Tonight I took off across that car park like Colin Jackson on his way to a dance class. The CCTV footage is sure to look like a Hollywood chase movie, me dodging people-carriers and grocery-laden juggernaut trolleys, intent only on finding my prized handbag before some other drongo who would pocket the unused Tesco vouchers, give my Styla lipstick to his 6-year old kid for her dolls, and try and fill his family's stockings with my hard-earned cash ( he'd probably have done ok too having just increased my overdraft in case Martian turned up without any cash again last night), whilst ditching the vintage Italian designer goods in a litter bin.
It does pay to exercise after all. One of the trolley men recognized my anxiety and directed me to the security guard. Hallelujah! It was saved. Nothing taken, just a few extra calories expended and some perspiration lost in the pursuit. My face redder than my already glowing nose, I limped back home, pulled my frumpiest thickest dressing-gown out of the wardrobe and made myself a hot lemon and paracetamol cocktail with an almond liquer chaser.
If I drink enough of the stuff, I might rally in time to face the Christmas Eve throngs. If I'm really lucky, I might drink so much that I don't wake up til February.
posted by Cherrypie at 6:53 pm
1 Comments:
I wish you and your family the happiest new year. I look forward to reading the tales that will be told this coming year.
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