Tuesday, May 10, 2005

I like Kinko, and covet all that is his

That's right. Whether you hate Kinko's or not, sweetheart, I only wish we had such finely-named stores here (point of information, we call them "shops" - we're quaint like that).

It's been so long since I spoke to any of you, you probably thought the rash that is me (lime disease) had finally gone; the last scabs had been picked off, and that little patch of redness that caused so much embarassment at the last pool party you went to had died down.

Well crack out the ointment, Alice, 'cause here I am!


What to say, what to say... Much has happened over the last few months, but I'm going to start with the most exciting and work my way down to the banal.

So the other day, I went to the "store" (I feel so cosmopolitan saying that... It's like boutique, but it only comes in a 24-pack) to pick up some sundries, and moved on by entirely unhindered until I got to the checkout, whereupon I was greeted by a gent, resplendent in his Somerfield teal and navy T-shirt, who could only be described as a troll.

Now, before I continue, I should say that I have absolutely nothing against the troll community per se; indeed, I could well have become a member on physical grounds many a time before now. No; the issue I took with this particular troll was that he was handling my goods.

And he had a head cold. Yes, girls and boys, he sneezed into his hands, and kept on rolling tin after tin of marrowfat peas down the chute into my waiting bag. Being the polite, retiring British type that I am, I said nothing. Now, thankfully, some kind soul (similarly attired, and armed with a roll industrial-strength paper towels) decided to render aid to this poor creature, who seemed utterly perplexed by the entire experience (sneezing, that is, not my visit).

So he tore himself off a slab and blew, before looking up at me enquiringly, before slowly returning his gaze to the tissue, then to the barcode scanner. For one awful moment, I thought he was going to scan it and send it my way, but thankfully the kindly provider of paper towels decided it was break time for our troll, and he hulked off into the cave of wonders at the back before he had chance to do anything untoward with his expulsion.


And that was the most exciting event of the past few months. The rest pales in comparison, though I did enjoy a lovely trip to France to see my mum. Were it not for the fact that I am so horribly, horribly poor, I'd have to say I enjoyed a positively cosmopolitan lifestyle, yet I must confess I took issue with those much-loved champions of the people, customs officers.

Now, it's been a while since I had a good, long look at myself in a mirror, but if someone were to think I had a slightly terrorist look about me, I'd think it a slightly odd comment. But these stalwart sentinels of international peace and goodwill thought either this, or felt a curious attraction to me that they felt could only be slaked by frisking me; rather too briskly for my tastes. Thankfully, I'd remembered to empty my pockets of any offending golf clubs, corkscrews, ski poles, mercury, loaded firearms, gunpowder, throwing stars, spray paint, viral organisms, nitric acid, carbon dioxide cartridges, fiberglass repair kits, pool cues, liquid nitrogen, fertilizers, swimming pool or spa chemicals, pesticides, car batteries and radioactive pharmaceuticals, so we skipped the trip to the small side room, but the damage was done! I was offended! I haven't be called so much as a troublemaker since I flipped off my French teacher in year 8, and now I'm being branded by the British transport police as a supporter of terror? I think not!

But the fun didn't end there. Once on the plane, I and the rest of the passengers were greeted by the pilot, who sounded like a bad Bond villain. This didn't inspire confidence. Add on to this fact that the steward looked like our aforementioned troll, this usually happy flyer was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

But an hour later we landed, safe, sound and entirely without incident (doubtless due to the customs officials' sterling work) in the sleepy hamlet that is Dinard airport. After walking across a mildly undulating tarmac runway to "passport control" (a Frenchman with a pillbox hat and a squint), I arrived in "baggage handling" (a dwarven runway of rollers that suitcases were thrown down), where I saw a wonderful sign:


This is luggages belt

only dangerous for children


In a moment of recklessness, I considered leaping on it and claiming that, as I'm not a child, I should be perfectly safe. Thankfully, my British sensibilities kept me from it, while simultaneously allowing a decidedly fragrant Frenchwoman to push in front of me in the queue. And I claim I can't multitask!

Anyhow, after arriving, the story gets decidedly less interesting, and it's 4am, so I must away. I'll be back in the summer, when my publisher is very kindly paying for my internet connection, but until then, I hope to make one or two additions to this fair blog.


With love and parsley,



Gothos.

1 Comments:

At 5:15 am, Blogger Kroz said...

Someone please remind me not to read any posts by Gothos while I'm eating breakfast. I nearly choked on my watermelon.

I'm not sure if it was from the story about Snotty Mcfadden or just the thought of Gothos whirling around on the luggage carousel.

 

Post a Comment

<< Home