Soup EXPLOSION
I don't mind working. I quite enjoy it, actually, even though my job is dead easy and could be done by far fewer than an infinite number of monkeys. It could probably be done by half a dozen chimps - even the rubbish ones that had trouble shifting a piano down the stairs in that PG Tips advert.
I work shifts, which means I'm at work at stupid times, which can sometimes be bad, because people go off and do fun things like ice skating and sitting in pubs, and I can't because I'm stuck at work, and ALL FUN should cease while I am at work. People should put on black ties and sit around looking sad and wistful.
But on the other side of the giant metaphorical coin, I mainly get to avoid the rush hour (I only go into work one day a week when I have to face up to the metro-reading, dead eyed, skanky mass of commuting humanity) and we have a table football table.
Anyway, probably the most exciting thing in my life at the moment is food. I love food, I do. I can eat anything I like and never put on weight, because I've got loads of nervous energy, but I reckon my metabolism is bound to slow down any day now, so I'm testing it out by eating as much as I can. No paunch yet. I particularly like soup, at the moment. And Mash. Marks and Spencer does wonderful soup and mash, and so I go there sometimes even though they probably financed Hitler or something.
I bought soup today, in fact. Whenever I go to Marks and Spencer I use one of those auto-serve points, because it's much quicker AND you get the fun of whooshing products in front of a laser gun until something goes *beep*.
Unfortunately, today is Saturday, and Saturday in London means only one thing: fucking amateurs. Amateur tube users, amateur drinkers, and amateur operating-self-service-in-marks-and-spencers-who-probably-supported-the-holocaust-ers. So I had to wait for ages behind a man who seemed to have a nervous breakdown trying to work out how it worked. He attempted to scan his first item, but swooshed it much to fast, and so it didn't register. And this was enough to defeat him. He just stood there, waiting for the ground to swallow him up. "Ha", I thought. "Ha".
Finally, another position came free. And I bounded over like an overenthusiastic puppy. And one of my precariously balanced cartons of soup wobbled, and tottered. And then, in slow motion, as these things seem to happen in, fell to the ground with a satisfying if mortifying SPLURRRGPTTTT. Vegetable soup all over the floor. It looked like sick. It looked like I'd been sick all over the floor.
Immediately - and I mean immediately - a man in his 60s arrived. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of an episode of 'are you being served', which I've never seen. But I'm sure someone that had seen 'are you being served' would have compared him to someone out of 'are you being served'.
"Oh dear, sir. We *have* made a mess, haven't we?"
"Yeah..."
"Oooooh. That's a NASTY one"
"Sorry..."
"That'll probably be a hundred pounds fine for you..."
"Um...."
Then I ran away.
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Why do all my stories end with me running away? It's either than or the world ending.
Comments
A nice lady explained that if you use the same card too often, the machine assumes there's some sort of fraud going on and blocks it. (A likely story. The machine was clearly a racist. Would it have blocked a white man's card? I think not, my friend.) The machine had, effectively, banned my fun, my one source of joy. The lady said I could pay at a normal checkout. I responded by running away.
It's also made me realise I've turned into my mother, as I take out my card, peer at it for a few minutes before trying to insert it the wrong way up.
I am struck by enough lefty guilt to stop a train whenever I use the self-service checkouts in Asda, given that a) it's fecking Asda and b) each time you use one of those it's like personally telling some old granny working on the checkout that they're fired before carrying them outside and flinging them in the gutter. But it's so much fun! Using the self-service machines, that is, not abusing grannies.
Both you and OliviaJoules are unnecessarily baffled by Vox. Look, you don't have to log in a million times! There's no spam! You can write private entries! Vox is best. I should apply for a job in their marketing department.
It's really not just me being an idiot. I'm sure vox works like something out of a beautiful dream for most people, but for some reason the site seems to have something against either the firefox browser, my work computer, or me personally. I want to use it. I want to join in the fun. But vox has singled me out as being the outsider, the poor orphan child who can only peer in at the festivity taking place within the convivial warmth of the house, as the cruel wind outside lashes at his poor malnourished frame, a single salty tear running down his grimy cheek. Then he gets eaten by a dog.
I could probably use it on my home computer though. But where's the fun in that?rst
1) I can't link to external sites. FUCKSTICKS. I wanted to link to Samira's blog, at least
2) It won't let non-believers comment
3) It's a little *too* shiny... presumably it'll be destroyed by someone we won't sleep with at some stage.
Hello Maldy, by the way; 'tis lovely to see you blogging again.
I think in future I will communicate entirely by saying 'this is good' in a variety of different languages. French means yes, German means no.
My keyboard now has Miso soup on because I couldn't stop sniggering at the thought of Kate with unauthorised items in her bagging area.
I've asked about letting Outsiders comment as well.