Carole’s buggered off for the weekend. She would have been running a half-marathon (her best half-marathon yet, is what she’d billed it as) but she’s off the running scene at the moment following an Achilles-related injury following a session of Tramp-Fit or whatever buzzword is used for trampolining exercise. Trampersize. Whatever.
Sufficed to say, she should have known better and now she can’t really run on it.
But her friend is still running so Carole has, like a loyal pal, gone to Nottingham to cheer her on. And see ducks and squirrels and things in a place.
When she left she made not one mention of any more parcels arriving for her. After the comedic stack that turned up the other day, I can’t imagine there’s anything else in the world that would be coming.
And yet, here’s another one. Sitting, waiting for her to come home and gleefully open it before explaining it’s something she ordered ages ago, that she’d completely forgotten about and it only cost a pound so it’s absolutely fine anyway. Or something like that.
I don’t have an issue with her current unceasing shopping. It’s fine. I don’t have an issue with any of it.
Aside from the fact that the parcels keep turning up when I really could do without them. The other day I was elbow deep in some bread. Today, entirely naked and in the shower. Oh and startled by the frantic banging on the door.
You tend to feel a lot more vulnerable when you’re naked and soapy that dressed and non-soapy. Especially when you don’t know what’s going on or why it’s happening. We once went through a phase where next door (the delightful souls) were clearly selling drugs but none of their customers could read door numbers so they all came to us. Every. Single. Time.
It’s not really what you want. That has stopped now. But it still lurks at the back of your mind. Some disgruntled former customer, hammering away at the door. Carole always used to worry the police would do a raid and kick our door in by accident.
I’d like to point out, though, that despite being wet and soapy I managed to get downstairs and get the parcel. Because I’m a fricking legend.
It’s very hard to put clothes on when you’re wet, it turns out. I’d shouted “Just a minute…” and then took about five to even get one leg in my trousers.
But hey, Carole has her parcel and doesn’t have to negotiate the daft opening hours of the sorting office.
Like I said, legend.