Well after complaining all week that I wished it would hurry up and appear or else go away altogether, the cold has appeared with a vengeance. I went through half a box of tissues at work yesterday, the man sat next to me on the train moved away on the way home and I consoled myself with Dominos pizza last night, and again cold with salad cream this morning. How grim, bad for me and wheaty? I don’t care, when I am ill I always listen to what my body says ‘I would like that’ so even though I had a Chinese the night before, I will not stress over calories consumed, because God knows blowing your nose every 2 mins, sneezing, coughing and sucking of lockets takes a lot out of you.
I am still in my nightie, I did contemplate a shower, but as I want to go back off to sleep shortly, and I never sleep particularly well after a shower, I will wait till later this afternoon. I am about to curl back up in bed with Lucia, who at the moment is creating a storm as she tries to conquer London. Written when having a private income of £3000 was seen as a huge amount, when parlour maids, cooks, drivers and gardeners we still gainfully employed by the middle classes around WW1, I love EF Benson’s books. I have always been fascinated by the life ‘below stairs’, stemming from a time Dad took us to a manor house that still had the bells hanging in the kitchen summoning the staff to attend to every whim of their masters. I almost wish I could have lived then, as I would dearly love to have been a housekeeper. I have no ideas over my station, but always feel the more I look into the subject that I was born in the wrong time. Certainly the manners of the proletariat are grating on me at the moment, I am fed up with being barged out the way by people, having trolleys rammed up my butt and the grip of general ignorance that is sweeping the nation, for example: Do people need to have a label on each and every pre-packaged fruit and vegetable selection to show them this is one of their five a day?
In this vein – do you have to stick a label on EVERY SINGLE SODDING apple in a crate? Do people have to have piped muzac and adverts telling them what to buy on entry to the shop, why can’t we shop in peace and quiet away from screaming children even when we go when my train gets back in the evening? At 8pm, you should have fed and watered them, either put them to bed or be doing homework with them, not dragging them around a supermarket. (New-borns excepted here, as you leave the house when you can.) We hate shopping at Tesco, usually go to Waitrose or Sainsbugs when the supermarket shop beckons, and I dragged Dan into Tesco on New Years Eve, never to be repeated, especially when I saw they are now doing Organic boxes too. I am rebelling, I am sending back my club card, I will not darken their door again. Not only because they have opened up a Krispy Kreme outlet at the one at North Harbour, heaven knows the people of Portsmouth needed one of those!? But because the first shop we saw in Budapest was a bluddy Tesco. Why are people getting club card points to recycle? Why do they have to constantly move the store around so you pass things you don’t want and impulse buy (not that we do but still) and why do they insist on having doors wide open with a heater blasting hot air out? There are so many other reasons why we are not going to Tesco again, but I can feel myself getting annoyed so I will close now and retreat into 1920s Britain and just leave you with what Georgie Pilson says ‘How tarsome’.
So very true…