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I have recently moved beyond the fringes of my own little world and gone shopping, not once, not twice but three times. I like to do things right and want to spend minimum time at a later date trying to find something that I forgot the first time round. Now ardent shoppers out there may be wailling at this point, as I am not particularly fond of the ‘the olde shop’ but certain things like for instance my modesty has to be attended to. To make myself feel better about the whole thing, I called the whole expedition “Upgrading my wardrobe”.
Teddy has also got new clothes too!
Early in the morning, I made a short trip to the nearest phone and dialled a number to (unnamed store) customer services. After navigating through the “For toilet paper … Press 2″, the ringing began, and it rang, and rang, and rang. Finally, a young man picked up with a gruff “Hello, this is *, how may I help you?”, sounding like he’d just knocked the family jewels and they were scattered underneath his desk. I told him my problem and waited for him to answer. There was a short pause, followed by a rather pained and abnormally high pitched “Ok, could you hold on a moment.”, then came mass shuffling and rumaging noises. A few second later, he started several short sentences: “Yes…”; “A…”; “It’s …”. Finally, he got the second word out and the information poured forth. I thanked him and we parted on a goodbye, mine being the sickeningly cheery happy customer one and his sounding very strained and painful. I hung up and thought to myself: “Yep, definitely constipation.”
Today I joined the squash of commuters and reams of newspapers into central London. Temperature was moderate, the sweat count was low but a light easterly fart was slowly making its way down the carriage. I stepped out into Oxford Street and made my way through some backroads to my work destination for the day … solicitors! The front door was ornate and wide, the entrance was comfy, but on making my way down into the work offices where the lesser solicitating monkeys were, it was cramped and there were screams of much needed storage space. Ever the professional, I ignored the seas of folders and made my way to the office where the offending computer was.
After asking them to explain what had happened from the beginning, they apologised as they handed me a small screwdriver in a concise way telling me that they had few tools to offer me. “It’s ok,” I replied, “I came prepared. A girl never knows when she needs a screw… driver (dammit) and tools (dammit dammit).” If they heard, they didn’t show it but nodded in agreement as “you really didn’t know when you needed to do it yourself”. I took out my tools and their faces lighted up showing their approval. It is good when I can impress without lifting a finger.
