Mol set off for next door but one, dressed appropriately in grass skirt, garland, headband, flower appliqued sleeveless top, and flip flops.
It says something to give a birthday party a hula theme twelve days before Christmas. What, am not quite decided, but something. A desire for contrast? A faith in your central heating and/or insulation? A derring doo ha HA and en garde to the Current Economic Climate? Mebbe just a daughter turning eleven who has asked for a luha?
Summink.
While my daughter confronted the elements with her fury of faux grass and faux flowers, I tucked my double-socked feet under a sleeping bag and ordered the shopping. Because, supermarkets in December? I can't be arsed. People say, I've heard them, they say oh yes! I do my food shop online because it stops all the impulse buys! You only buy what you need!
Do you bollocks.
The slight delivery man works shifts with himself to dump a fat elephant's weight in crap in my kitchen whenever I order online, his eyes an unspoken Missus, why did you buy this, this, or this? All this? Because. It. Wasn't. Real. It was a button I pressed, and then another, and then again, and again. The supermarket knows this about me. They know that while in their shop I might be a forensic expert of the aisle label smallprint, a honed cynic of a fighting machine who trigger fingers the oranges, but an emailed code for free delivery makes that finger trigger happy, repeat ricocheting off Add To Trolley into the beating heart of Place Order.
Right, says the slight delivery man, shaking out my receipt and his strained shoulders in a single, practised move, there's just the one substitution today. They were all out out Credit Crunch two-for-one, so they've popped some Doom Pie in instead. That okay, or shall I take it back?
That's okay. Thanks.
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