The Sainsbury’s driver who delivers our stuff, more or less every week, asks me the same question every time I see him.
He stands, silently, while I unpack a variety of things that make meals from one basket to another. He doesn’t help. He’s not like the nice man who squashed the bagels last week. He just stands and watches.
And then he says, “Got anything planned?”
He says it every time. I know it will be coming. I never have an answer.
I always just say, “I haven’t been fully briefed, yet…” or some variation of that answer. And we chuckle about it because being under the thumb is hilarious and there I am giving the indication that I am waiting to be told what we will be doing on any given weekend. Which, as anyone who knows us knows, is a lie. As I am fully aware of what is happening each weekend because there’s often a list and sometimes an electronic reminder.
This week I wasn’t really prepared. And he asked whether I had plans and I said, “Well, it’s a bit weather dependent really…”
And we both sort of stopped and looked at the complete lack of snow. And I realised that what I had done was open up another avenue of discussion about how much, if any, snowfall there had been in our area. Especially as I’d clearly bigged it up to such an extent that our entire weekend plans hinged around whether we would be able to get out, of if we’d have to battle through snow drifts like a modern day Hannah Hawkswell.
I had to admit that we’d only had a very slight sprinkling of snow. And so that any plans we did have would be entirely unaffected by that. Or, maybe, he left thinking that our plans were ruined by a lack of snow. Maybe he headed off to the next delivery feeling sorry for us because we wouldn’t be able to go out and shred up that gnarly powder. Or something.
I mean, he didn’t. Obviously. He’s been coming here long enough to know that I clearly never have any plans at something ridiculously early in the morning. Sometimes my plans extend as far as wondering if I’ll be able to rearrange the freezer to make enough space for some fish fingers.
But I can’t tell him that.