Is this the way to Amarillo?

Tags

Amaretto, Amarillo, Amontillado, Anne Boleyn, aperro, armadillo, Asterix, Barbara Cartland, Big issue, Bridge over River Kwai, Depardieu, Fanny Cradock, GPS, intelligent traffic lights, Mr Blobby, Peter Kay, Pompeii, Richter scale, River Roach, Rochefort, sink hole, Suttonford, tachograph, tachycardia, Tony Christie, Ville Fleurie

Chlamydia, to give her full title, and I were counting out our lives in

coffee spoons, as is our wont, outside Costamuchamoulah must-seen

cafe.

That’s the umpteenth lorry to pass in under two minutes, Clammie

expostulated.  This village is being ruined with congestion; is being shaken

by tremors which would register as peak on the Richter scale and is being

buried under a  thick coating of diesel dust which is beginning to settle on us

like the petrified victims of Pompeii.

She put her cappucino down and the spoon rattled and reverberated for

a couple of seconds on the saucer.

Yes, I agreed.  We will probably disappear down a sink hole in the middle of

High Street at any minute.  I’m fed up breathing and filtering dangerous levels

of particulate matter.  Maybe I could buy a mask like the Japanese wear when

there is smog.

Suddenly there was a violent shudder and we observed a particularly serious

case of Pantechnicon HGV coitus fixatus: ie/ two lorries had wedged

themselves together in a surreal parody of that legendary locked together

syndrome which allegedly is presented at A&E departments the world over.

Bonne fin de matinee, mesdames!  I am in Suttonford-no?

The voice emanated from the cabin of the nearside lorry whose window was

down. The driver looked a little bit like Tony Christie.

Yes, we replied, but we sincerely wish that you weren’t!  Nothing personal.

Desole, but I am seeking the bridge over the River Roach, he continued.

Well, said Carrie, rather sarcastically, you are nearly as far from

it as from The Bridge over the River Kwai.

Quoi? he said.

Kwai, she replied.

It was like that question so popularised by Peter Kay: Is this the way to

Amarillo? Someone could have asked if he meant ‘armadillo’, or Amontillado

and so on.  Once I had thought of that fortified liqueur, my mind crossed over

to wondering if Ginevra had any in store and whether she would mind me

dropping by for an aperro.

Roach!  We did not recognise le sujet de sa parlance.

Oui, he insisted.  Suttonford-a village which is bisected by the River Roach.

It said that it was once called Rochefort.

This was becoming even more bizarre.

Non, stressed Clammie.  Suttonford was once called Newtown, or

something comme ca.  Are you pas certain que vous n’ avez pas lu

la carte sans vos lunettes?  And Rochefort is in your neck of the EU,

I’d have said.

The traffic was backing up High Street.  This was turning out to be no

brief encounter of any ordinal numero.  The savvy locals sipped their coffees

and proclaimed that this was another example of how necessary the new

breed of Intelligent Traffic Lights was to the general well-being of their

community.

Clammie put on her spectacles.  Now she could see that the driver actually

resembled Mr Blobby rather than the other perambulant pilgrim in the song.

Mais, I used my GPS, he shook his head.  I looked for Suttonford Bridge, as

I was warned that there is a double chicane- tres dangereux.

Clammie referred to her phone.  She had Googled ‘Suttonford’.

Someone tooted impatiently at Monsieur Le Perdu, pas Depardieu,

malheureusement.

Then my friend raised her voice as only the linguistically challenged can,

and do. This is Suttonford, she explained.  But not in Essex.  Not once

called Rochford.

She turned to me: Rochford – that’s where Anne Boleyn was born.  She

volunteered this pearl of wisdom while a suite of hoots, or a cacophony of

klaxons that might have characterised a Modernist symphony let rip.

She looked directly at the driver and credited him with not knowing combien

flageolets fait cinq.

Try using a carte and a soupcon de savoir faire, she advised.  Tournez and

depechez-vous tout de suite. Immediatement! she shouted and stamped her

designer kitten heel in a fashion that any Gaul, including Asterix, would

fully comprehend.

Les autres Suttonfords are in Illinois, imbecile, she warmed to her theme,

Waikerie-South Australia-Texas and Tennessee, but c’est impossible to

conduire la.

The driver was now looking rather mouton-like.

Volte-face! screamed Clammie.

Bystanders applauded and started to film the 180 degree about-

face as I think this translated.

Two cracked paving slabs and an uprooted bollard later, he proceeded up

High Street, with a hanging basket like a Barbara Cartland or Fanny Cradock

millinery marvel on the roof of his cab.  He had narrowly missed committing

manslaughter by his lack of observation of the jaywalking Big Issue seller.

Ville Fleurie, but not for long, I commented.

He’ll have to keep an eye on his tachograph, said Clammie calmly, now that the

situation had returned to whatever was regarded as normal.

And on his tachycardia, I added.

What about ours? she queried.

I know.  Let’s go and see Ginevra.  She can show us the way to a glass of

Amaretto, or whatever she has in her wine cupboard.  Sha la la la la la.

Tesco Not So Express

Tags

Anusol, Balm of Gilead, Balsam of Peru, Big issue, Camembert, Clubcard, customer service training, Dali, Derren Brown, Jacob's Creek, Johnson and Johnson, Tesco Express, Tucks

The woman on the till whose posture resembled a Dali (no, not a ‘deli’ )

melting Camembert said, Can I help? in the most desultory fashion, as if

she had been exhausted by days of customer service training.

Insert your Clubcard or select payment, ordered the annoyingly didactic voice

in the aisle next to mine.

Nothing would induce me to feed my items through a self-service scanner.

You can bet your bottom dollar, euro or pound that there will be a

malfunction provoked by the yellow reduced stickers anyway.

Then there will be no one to assist, as the next till will be busy with a

woman cashing in a wad of vouchers, or who feels like having an

argument over whether something qualifies for one of the said

vouchers.

The manager will have to be called, but he, or they will have to send

out a search party if it is during a break and you’ll have to wait till the

one in authority finishes their fag and comes in from an alleyway.

The only other assistant- overweight and not able to squeeze past the metal

trolley from which she is removing on their sell-by date items from shelves- will

become wedged in the narrow aisle and will require a call-out from the

emergency services.

Of course, you simply have to wait for a humanly-manned till.  (Is ‘manned‘ a

generic term?) (A humanely-manned till: even better!)

I arthritically heave my heavy basket onto the towering pile of wire

receptacles by the side of the till.  Why do they allow them to pile up?

The assistant proffers a plastic bag automatically.

No, don’t worry. I have a ‘Suttonford Decries Plastic’ hessian shopper,

I say smugly.  That means I can have a bag point.

Whether I gained one or not is a moot point.

Do you have a Clubcard?

Yes, it is on the credit card.

Please insert your card .  The assistant looks away in the obvious manner

that you were told to look in the mirror on your driving test.  But what about

the person behind you with Derren Brown eyes and advanced mind mapping

skills?

I quickly type my pin number and, of course, get one digit wrong.  Then I notice

that I have been charged for two goats’ cheeses at the full price, when the second

should have been half price. So, I query it. (Does it take more than one goat to

create one of those log things?  I need to know for the apostrophe.)

Oh, that’s only for the Luxury brand available at our main store in **.

She mentions a town fifty miles away.

Okay, I sigh.  Could you cancel that?  I don’t really want them anyway.

The woman on the till signals desperately to the shelf stacker. She

doesn’t respond.

 I’ll run and replace them on the shelf, I suggest helpfully.

The person behind swears under their breath.

I rush back, having gone round anti-clockwise to avoid being trapped

in the other aisle which is being re-stocked.

Do you collect school vouchers?

Flustered, I reply, No, I’ve got plenty of schools.  I take the wretched

tokens anyway.

Please scan your next item, says the scanner to the person who was

behind me and who has given up on personal service and switched

queues.

Would you like to continue?

Hold on, he says. I haven’t done the first one yet.

Please hold the line while we try to connect you.  The person you are

calling knows you are waiting.

Wait a minute. That’s not right, I think, as I pack everything into

the scratchy bag I made from the hair shirt I won for the martyrdom of

supermarket shopping.

Malfunction, says the scanner.  Item not recognised.

The vicar- for indeed it is he who has sworn, albeit softly- appeals to

the employee who had been processing my transaction, since she is

theoretically free now, though I haven’t quite packed all my items.

The scanner isn’t working.

Why doesn’t he anoint it with Extra Virgin and say a prayer?

What is it you tried to scan?  she says, looking as if she believes that

he has deliberately stopped it.  I think about Moses holding back The

Red Sea, or Joshua halting the progress of the sun.

Everyone in the queue looks over.

 

 

Just this tube of Anusol.  He tries to brazen it out, but his red neck against

the white dog collar betrays his emotion.

There are two for the price of one at the moment and it wants to charge me

twice.

The assistant shouts, Alex!! This gentleman wants the special offer on the

Anusol!!!

It’s only on the 800g ones, Alex says triumphantly.  And we don’t have those

at this branch.

Everyone is quite involved by now. The manager comes over, reeking of

cigarette smoke and looking puzzled, as if wondering why anyone would

want two tubes of aforementioned item for one orifice.

I lift my bag and the hemp handles gave way, decanting a bottle of Jacob’s

Creek onto the floor.  So much for trying to save the planet.  I hope they

will recycle the glass.

Do you want to continue? repeats the scanner ad nauseam.

No, I’ve lost the will to live, I hiss, even though I am not the addressee.

I accept a plastic bag after all and have my green point deducted.

I stumble through the, thankfully, automatic glass door and straight into

a well-wrapped up figure, strategically blocking the exit.

Big Issue?

No thanks, I say, shoving some school vouchers into his gloved hand.

Anything to get out of here.

Actually, that’s a lot of Anusol, I think, on my way home.  He must

get through a lot. Maybe I should look into Johnson and Johnson’s share

price and get rid of Tesco from my ISA.  Maybe the vicar is in the know,

or maybe he has just confused Balm of Gilead with Balsam of Peru, which

I understand is a constituent ingredient.

No, I am not revealing how I know that.  I just like reading packets.

Honest.

They call it Tucks in the USA.

Why?

 

 

 

 

Compassion Fatigue

Tags

4x4, Andrex puppy, Andy Murray, Antiques Roadshow, Barrier Reef, Big issue, cashmere, CERN, charity shop, Chewbacca, Co-Op, compassion fatigue, David Battie, Feeding of Five Thousand, Fiona Bruce, Galilee, Jesus, merino, Nanking wreck, neighbour, Oxford Brookes, Roger Federer, Shakespeare, SIM, Suttonford, tennis, Tesco, texting, tramp, vegetarian, Wimbledon

CANDIA, CANDIA, WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO YOUR LIFE?

I may have had love at thirty and even love at forty, but there didn’t seem to be such a score as love fifty.  I even thought that my name was a cross between a sexually transmitted disease and an artificial sweetener.  Or was it that, as a femme d’un certain age my frankness and candour had become eponymous and self-fulfilling?

I looked out of the window.  The rain it raineth every day.  I wondered if it had been the wettest June and July since Shakespeare’s time, let alone since records began.  (My English degree sometimes surfaces like a rogue shark on the Barrier Reef of my endangered intellect.)  I decided to venture forth to surf the main street of Suttonford.)

The lure of Tesco Express hooked me in.  Yellow stickers on a few packets of prawns helped me to rationalise that what I saved on comestibles would subsidise the purchase of a few designer garments in the sales.

Co-op or Tesco?  Difficult, as I’d have to negotiate the Charybdis of a Romanian Big Issue seller who had taken to making himself very comfortable on a teak garden chair, right outside the entrance to TE, causing the automatic doors to go into overdrive; or I would have to steer clear of Scylla, in the form of Suttonford’s designer tramp who sat cross-legged, texting his currency dealer, or checking his Visa account on his mobile. I was in danger of extreme compassion fatigue.  It was no use asking myself: “What would Jesus do?”

Probably He would have been able to address the Romanian in his own language and could have introduced Himself as the original Big Issue, or He could have given the technological tramp advice on a hotline to heaven that didn’t involve indulgences in the form of top up cards.  Maybe He could have transformed intermittent reception owing to SIM malfunction, rather than to sin.  Anyway, I doubted that the tramp would have appreciated being told to take up his bed and walk.  I thought he’d prefer another can of the lager that the public-spirited locals tended to supply.

The Son of Man once had nowhere to lay His head either, but things might have been improved if Nevisport down sleeping bags had been around two millennia ago.  Mind you, maybe the Apostles hadn’t needed such protection, as climate change hadn’t made camping in Galilee as warm and wet as in the present time.

Furthermore, I wasn’t sure if I should offer the indigent, if not mendicant, anything, since I had witnessed my neighbour’s dismay on proffering him the leftover sausage rolls from the Jubilee Feeding of the Five Thousand street party.  He had politely, but firmly declined: No thank you, madam.  I’m a vegetarian.

My neighbour wasn’t used to a tramp taking the moral high ground.  The cheek of it!

Oh well! Better trundle off with my funky trolley out and head for Help the Ancient, before any of the rapacious so-called pre-empt me and bag all the bargains.

I used to find lots of treasures in charity shops before the prices rose in the time of austerity.  Even the rich are feeling the pinch, so why do charities double the price of clothing, which is then unsold and has to be re-distributed to lowlier branches in less salubrious areas, where it is offered at half the price to the same rich bounty hunters, who simply have the plastic wherewithal to put enough petrol in their 4x4s so that they can travel further afield in their materialistic slash and burn forays?

No, not all the elderly are rapacious.  Some volunteer in such shops, but find multitasking challenging.  You must never distract them at the till and it is essential to check the chip and pin, or you can end up paying £8,000 for a pilled pullover, already pricily tagged at £8.  The manager usually has to be summoned like a genie from some steamy esoteric activity behind a back curtain.  Then, to the accompaniment of impatient dismay from a line of jealous vultures who have just spotted your potential purchase of a Merino, or Cashmere find, but who haven’t noticed the moth holes, a till roll with Cancelled, the absurd length of which would  delight any Andrex puppy, will be issued. I always doubt the assurances that a sum that equals the deficit of Spain will not appear on my next statement as an outgoing.  Still, I can’t keep away from the places of temptation.

Hello, Candia.

It was my least favourite volunteer.  Rather than thanking people for donating sacks of goodies, she delighted in deterring them from depositing bags after some arbitrary time of day and she could spot an electrical item faster than a Heathrow sniffer dog uncovers a kilo of cocaine.

When a breathless woman whose twins were squabbling in a vehicle on a double yellow line came in, gasping as she heaved a bulging black bag, the do-gooder delighted in delaying the drop-off by asking all sorts of intrusive questions as to whether the  donor was a UK taxpayer or not.  Eventually the woman snapped:

How can I be a taxpayer when I have never worked?

I didn’t know the volunteer’s name and she wasn’t wearing an identification badge.  I launched in, nevertheless:

You know that Ming vase that I was cajoled into buying last week for a fiver?  Well, it had a hairline-no, not an airline- crack.

She turned up her hearing aid. I continued:

That means that it isn’t fit for purpose and David Battie always says that there is a difference between a firing crack , which wouldn’t affect the value of a piece materially, and a hairline. I know you are a charity shop, but the Trades Description laws apply to you as well. Can you give me, at least, an exchange note?

Certainly.  Do you still have the receipt? Fifteen love.

I hesitated. Well, no.. You see, it said £500,000, so I destroyed it in case someone thought I was into money laundering. Thirty love.

Ah, well, I’m sorry. We can’t do anything without it.  As a decorative item, I’m sure that it is worth what you paid.  I stopped scoring.  The ball was in.  Okay, they were not going to get my old Manola Beatnik slingbacks that I’d bought in a Moroccan souk. I will take them to the next Roadshow valuation day.  They might be worth something in the very distant future.  Maybe Fiona Bruce could try them for size.

My next stop was Costamuchamoulah, a trendy “must-seen” coffee shop, where the price of a cappuccino was commensurate with the cost of one of the rare beans from which its beverages were produced.  A single example had excited more fever on the Stock Market than a tulip bulb had raised in Amsterdam at the time of the girl with the pearl ear-ring.  They sell other things too- such as sprouted beans that might be Ming rather than mung and could featured in a barter system where rare porcelain Nanking wreck discoveries could be exchanged for one millionth of a gram.  Still, as the adverts keep reminding me: I am worth it.  Instant gratification here I come!

Darling!

It was a deeply insincere parent of a dreadfully dim girl that I had once taught.

Look at this amazing double egg cup in goose, hen or quail sizes.  It has such cute little sheeps’ heads on it.

Sheep plural, I scoffed silently.

I simply must buy one for Becca’s Biology teacher.  He really helped her to get an A* with all those extra lunchtime sessions he provided.

The ones which she didn’t bother to turn up for with me, I brooded.

(This A/ A* obsession was becoming as annoying as having to observe all those Chinese silver medallists blubbing because they feel they have let down the Motherland.)

Yes, that’s what got her into Biological Sciences at Oxford, the proud progenitor persisted.

Brookes. I silently supplied the post-modifier.

Instead I said, How marvellous!  And how is – I fudged the name– doing now?  As if I cared.

Oh, she’s landed a superb internship for next year at CERN.  She wants to research Botox particles and can’t wait to jog around the collider when it’s not switched on.

I grimaced.

She was at a party in London and met a girl who babysits for Roger Federer- you know, the tennis player..

(Yes, I do know, you patronising… This sotte voce.)

..when he is at Wimbledon.  Now she’s really into all things Alpen.

Muesli for her, I muttered in an embittered tone.  Must dash. Say her old English teacher was asking for her. (Maybe Becca or Chewbacca, or whoever, could get me a discarded sweat-drenched towel from Wimbledon.)

I will, darling, if she remembers who you are/were.  Ciao.

I couldn’t help wondering who babysat for Andy Murray’s mum?  Presumably Kim.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012