An unashamedly self indulgent quest for sympathy... and a hot Ribena please!

So I’m ill again. Yet again to be more precise. One of the little blighters at work has shared their germs with me and I have become an incubus for the latest mutation of the germ that is making my throat feel like I’m swallowing razor blades.

For those of you who have kept au fait of my actions over the past few months, you will already know that I succumbed to a particularly nasty version of man flu over the Christmas period, but I rallied on through. With the help of copious amounts of tissues, decongestants and hot Ribena I survived and didn’t wallow in the misery too much... well maybe a bit but that’s only natural. But this cold is different. This is the type of germ that kicks you when you’re down, the type that crawls into each atom of your being and settles in for the long run. Oh, what the hell, I’m going to wallow and I feel I’m justified in my wallowing. I can count on my fingers and toes the number of days it’s been since the last cold deserted me, which basically means that it is wholly unfair that I’m ill again.

GIVE ME SYMPATHY!!

(And I wouldn’t mind a hot drink too ‘cus the kettle is tauting me from the work surface, knowing that I’m too feeble to get up and make it myself!)

However, there is an upside, an upside in the form of a plethora of daytime television to help me through these trying times. When you’re feeling down, the ten o’clock instalment of Homes Under the Hammer, with its peppy would-be property developers and the feigned enthusiasm at the market valuations, prove that some things never change. This comes as a welcome reminder of my student days when I would wake up in time to see this, followed by To Buy or Not To Buy whilst sitting in my PJ’s and recovering from the night before’s hangover, drinking tea and putting off the inevitable essay. Substitute the tea with a lemsip and the PJ’s for Jack Wills trackies and that’s about where I am now.

(N.B. Yes, you did hear correctly; I am wearing Jack Wills, but I maintain that I do this purely ironically. But I would feel a lot less of a hypocrite if there weren’t so darn comfy!)

But that was not where I was to remain. After the Christmas onslaught my paracetamol supply was severely depleted and I was in danger of exiting the decongestant induced haze that seemed to be surrounding me. So wrapping myself up in a scarf and gillet (I know what you’re thinking; Jack Wills and a gillet, but I’m ill, and it’s cold, and they’re warm so leave me alone!) I braved the short walk to Tesco with the challenge to buy the standard diet of invalids; soup and drugs! In my haste to replenish the paracetamol supplies, I ended up not making my customary list which again serves to show how off-kilter I was feeling. I live for lists. I have lists about lists and notes about lists, but not this time. Not a list in sight and therefore I site this as the root of my failure. Lack of lists. It was because of the lack of lists that I was perusing the cheese section looking at a very appetising mini camembert to add to the other impulse buys of prawn cocktail crisps, half price cherries and yet more soup, (even though I have perfectly good homemade soup at the flat) that I stepped back.

I stepped back and felt the unexpected resistance at the back of my legs, just below the knee, as the leg that I had tried to move failed to reach it desired destination and remained pretty much where it was.

At this point, the upper half of my body had already shifted its centre of balance, in preparation for the aforementioned backwards step and had commenced its trajectory.

It was then that my knees started to buckle in response to the object now behind them and my arms went up to the side scattering the contents of my basket around the cheese isle.

And then I realised that a fall was imminent, and I braced myself...

...to land on the lap of the man in the wheelchair who had stealthily pulled up behind me.

To say he looked perturbed at the fact that a sickly twenty five year-old was sprawled on his lap, would be a bit of an understatement. Completely terrified would be more correct. But ever one to regain composure in a situation like this, I picked myself up off his lap, apologised through a particularly violent fit of coughing, and gathered my scattered purchases to made tracks for the tills.

It was only when I got home that I realised that I had forgotten to buy any paracetamol, and no matter how many combinations of it I tried, soup, cherries and prawn cocktail crisps are no substitute and only served to make me feel even more like a failure.

Needless to say I made a list to remind my cold addled brain what to get at the shop:

Buy paracetamol

Don’t be a tit.

I’m not sure which part of that is more achievable.

Definitely not a dildo!

“What is that?” he said in his thick Brummie accent.

“What is that?” I repeated, with my now trademark eyebrow raise.

“Yea, what is it?” he said again raising the phallic shaped object in his hand as if to get a closer look.

For all of you still trying to guess, the answer is not a dildo, you filthy minded individuals! Who am I kidding? You’re in good company here!

“That,” I said, “is a courgette.”

The man working on the till at Tesco looked at me bemused.

“Is that like a cucumber?” he asked.

Of course it isn’t you cretin. Surely to work at Tesco you should at least be able to identify your produce, shouldn’t you? Then I noticed the Trainee badge that he sported proudly on his nylon uniform.

“Yes,” I say, taking the easy way out and avoiding any further conversation. I even gave him the smile that I save for the terminally stupid. Now if that isn’t sympathetic then I don’t know what is?

“Innit?” he replied, nodding his head in approval before putting it into my bag. Goodness knows what he would make of the aubergine that was still to come!

Why is it that every time I go to this particular superstore that I end up having such ridiculous conversations?

I was chided by my work colleagues recently after a trip to Britain’s favourite supermarket where I had an altercation with the check out worker. On placing my Twilight DVD on the conveyor, the attendant examined it carefully.

“You like Twilight?” he said with a sneer.

Don’t. Even. Get. Me. Started.

And then before I realised what I was saying:

“You like working at Tesco?”

I know, that was a pretty low blow and he did look (quite deservedly) downcast. But hang on, this was one of those few occasions when I actually thought of a witty retort and managed to use it. Yet I still felt like a dick.

Oh God, then there was that awkward silence. That LONG and ever increasing silence. How do I escape this? Being vaguely aware of the fact that I was reddening through a combination of embarrassment and exhilaration (at the fact that I actually managed to say what I wanted to, when I wanted to, not some perverted excitement at terrorising Tesco’s uneducated employees!) I plumped for the customary glare. Never fails! Scared into a frantic exaggerated frenzy by the sharp tongued, glaring southerner, I would like to point out that following my outburst I did receive exemplary customer service! Silent! The best kind!

It’s not all one sided though. Oh no! After turning 25 a couple of weeks ago and revelling in the plethora of cards highlighting the fact that I am now officially old, or as one more sympathetic friend’s card denoted; dangerously close to being old, Tesco decided to kick me whilst I was down. On one of my standard trips to the local Express store near my apartment to buy the customary bottle of red after another gruelling day, the Caribbean lady working on the till asked to see my ID. Feeling almost smug as I look up to show her my driving licence she saw my face and responded;

“Oh no, definitely over 25,” she said in lilting Jamaican tones and waved my driving license aside.

Bitch!

Oh well. It’s still Jack: 2, Tesco: 1.