This morning was intended to be normal, with a quick trip to the shops, and no reason to get frustrated. However, North Yorkshire befuddlement kicked in. I left the house, and called in at the Post Office to get stamps. I was beaten to the door by a woman with child. Sadly the child was an annoying little cunt, and the mother (or Gran, I couldn't tell) was a useless twat with no authority. I stood behind her, as we all waited for the chap at the counter who was commanding total attention from the two servers, as he seemed to be withdrawing a large amount of money, including many bags of coins. Who the fuck needs to do this on a Saturday morning?
The little cunt decided to tamper with some toy cars that were for sale on a stand. He whined and pleased for shit. The big twat allegedly in charge of him was devoid of any power of persuasion, let alone authority, and had the panache level of a fucking granite block. Instead, she amplified his moan with her own cuntin' whining, and attempts at telling him what to do (and not to do). I noticed a circular stand containing dvd/cd language courses for sale at £14.99. The top one was Learning Persian, and at the bottom I was astonished to see Leaning Zulu. What the cuntin fuck? I have not seen a black man in over ten years in this part of Royston Vasey - sorry, North Yorkshire. Who on earth, well, locally, would consider on the off chance opting to pick up a course in learning fucking Zulu?
Mafia man was still having his money counted and I decided to leave. I could always call in on the way back when attention might be forthcoming. I crossed the road to Lloyds Chemist, and handed in a prescription. It would apparently "only take a minute" according to the uniformed assistant. With no one else in the shop, I had no reason to doubt her word. I decided to nip to the Co-op for a paper and Lottery ticket.
I got my paper and a ticket, and ignored the weird 'event' that was underway, involving the attempted sale of cakes (of unknown origin) that were sweating on a trestle table to the side of the tills. The sunshine was killing them slowly. Obviously the main characteristic of any cake is its moistness, and these little fuckers were being drained. Drained of any enthusiasm, I limped to the chemist, hoping for a swift pick-up, having already pained the rip-off charge. "It won't be a minute," said the assistant, a different one from five minutes earlier. A man entered, with a hand that needed some input.
I never got to see the hand, but heard all about it. It was not painful, but it was sore when touched. It had swollen, and he had no idea what had happened. It apparently could have been a cut, a bite or a close encounter with the third kind. He wanted some appropriate cream to put on it, if any such cream existed. The assistant decided that the pharmacist should be called. As if by magic, a Zulu appeared! Yes, the irony was phenomenal. The black man was helpfully and courteously unhelpful, suggesting the chap with the dodgy hand ought to wait a couple of days, but he did not miss the opportunity for a sale, and suggested also some anti-inflammatory cream. A woman in a suit appeared and told me my prescription would be ready soon but it had to be checked. This was the role of the Zulu. [I am of course being politically incorrect, but for comic effect feel entitled to milk this irony to within an inch of its life].
I waited some more, and then some more. Assistant number one was lining up packets of massively overpriced tablets, so they looked 'nice'. Eventually the handyman left the shop, having bought some cream. I considered that the four fucking staff were collectively devoid of any urgency in their efforts to serve the community. After the pharmacist unbelievably bought something for himself from one of the two uniformed assistants at a till around the corner, he then returned to the main till and collected a small red basket. Two minutes later he walked back to the till, and contained within the red basket was, at last, a white sealed packet with my prescription inside. He checked my address, pointlessly, as no other cunt had handed in any prescription in the last half hour! As I left, I heard him checking with one of the two gawping assistants that I had paid.
I called in at the butcher for some free range eggs. Despite having the exact change ready (£1.20) there were none on the counter top, so I was denied the opportunity of leaving my money and taking the eggs. I quickly surmised that my wait would be annoying, as I was behind two people. Unsurprisingly there were three other people in the premises, but only one serving, of course. The current transaction was for a sandwich involving hot food, and I considered that the butchery business had undergone an unwelcome transition; I left the cunts to it.
Forgetting to get stamps, I returned home flabbergasted at the complications and annoyance that had arisen in just fifteen minutes within the immediate vicinity of my house,
Ho hum.
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