A drop of Sherry

I was standing in boots looking at blusher (as if my face wasn't embarrassing enough) when I noticed an old lady bent over her zimmer frame looking at lip stick. How brilliant, I thought that at that age she still wore lipstick.

I was in the queue later and the old women went to counter and asked for some assistance.

'Hello, sorry dear I've forgotten my glasses and I can't find this shade' She pulled out a stick of lipstick from her handbag. The lady behind the counter smiled and said something patronising like;

'Not having a very good day are we?'

I don't know why people insist of saying 'we' instead of 'you' to the ill, injured or infirm.

'No dear' Replied the women, now smiling relieved to have some help.

They walked over to the make up stand and the shop assistant looked at the various different lipsticks. They chatted away like they were old friends, which perhaps they were.

'So' said the shop assistant 'What is the name of this shade?'

'A Drop of Sherry' Replied the old women.

The highlight of my day

I hate the sound of dry felt tip pens on paper. In fact hate is a bit weak; abhor, loathe, despise, I am perhaps even phobic. I don't know why or how it started but I literally can't bear it. If I accidentally find myself writing with a dry felt tip pen my instant reaction is to jump away in horror and contort my body into shapes of disgust, like some people do if they accidentally find a maggot in an apple they are eating or a severed finger in a crisp packet. Everyone has something they can't bare and this is my nails down a blackboard, my cracking of knuckles, my Bono.

Once when I was at work I had to leave the room because one of my colleagues was labelling up an envelope with an old marker pen; my eyes began to water and I excused myself immediately for fear I might vomit.

So, it was to my horror that a few days ago during rush hour, weighed down by bags, unable to move, I sat on the Piccadilly line next to a husband and wife couple who were trying to establish which one of the many highlighters they had in their bag worked.

Dry pen after dry pen was dragged across scrap paper as they tried to draw attention to some sentence or other. They were probably in their sixties and they had more highlighter pens than an average office. This succession and repetition of neon lasted my entire journey, why would they have so many dried up marker pens, and what was so important that they must highlight it now?

My eyes began to water, of all the people they could sit next to, they had to sit next to me, probably the only person on the entire tube network with an irrational fear of dry nibs. I scowled at them as I turned up my ipod, but the scrapping noise penetrated even that. I dug my fingers into the palm of my hands but the pain did nothing to dull the actual pain of being there. They must have wondered why I was tutting and scowling and listening to Canned Heat so loudly. Little did they know or understand what they were putting me through. I gagged twice and the second time coincided with their joy of finding a working highlighter.

I shuddered and huffed and alighted at Finsbury park.

Roadkill

I continue to wobble around the countryside on my 14th birthday present. The main aim of these explorations is to not get fat but also to get out of the house. 

On Saturday I cycled home from my brothers house in Cambridge, I say cycle, stagger would be more accurate. It is about 18 miles and flat all the way which makes it easy but also means there are no downward hills to make you forget what you're doing for a minute. It took me about two hours which I didn't think was too bad and I went the long way round so as to avoid the traffic. At one point I thought I'd discovered a new species of rodent, a massive rat possibly, but then I realised it was a rabbit with his ears back who scampered into a corn field when I approached him.

I have also seen a lot of dead things:

x2 rats

x3 pheasants

x1 deer- so newly dead he would have been alive five minutes earlier.

x1 tail without a body

x1 fox

x loads of hedgehogs but they don't count because they are born to be flattened.

x1 Perfectly decent looking pair of levis discarded in a field. I considered picking them up but then became worried they might be of importance to an impending murder enquiry so left them where they were.

I also saw a mini tornado in a field but that sounds like a lie and so I won't waste my time describing it to you.