Oct 10, 2020: Bants

You know, I love having our shopping delivered. Genuinely. It’s one of the best things in the world, ever. It’s such a quality of life thing. Supermarkets were full of bellends in the before times, sure, but now the after times have brought a different breed of bellend and anything that can be done to avoid them should be embraced.

I don’t love the fact that we always – always – leave it until the last possible moment to place our order, despite the fact that the meal planner/shopping list is out in the kitchen all week.

I don’t love the fact that, almost without fail, Carole will ask for something on the morning of the order or say “oh, do we not have…” knowing full well I have just unpacked and put away everything I was previously told to purchase.

But generally, I love it.

Apart from…

I don’t want to do small talk at 7.30 in the morning. I don’t. Or before that, in the case of this morning’s driver who didn’t even bother to turn up in the deliver slot I’d picked and just rocked up before 7.30 which saw me leaping out of bed swearing a lot as I tried (and failed) to get my left leg into my joggers in order to not just be in my pants when I opened the door.

But then… ugh… small talk. About the weather – I have no idea, mate. Five minutes ago I was in bed enjoying a snooze on my alarm because YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE YET! Or his van and how it was falling apart and that if I found part of a step in the street I should know it belonged to his van.

I’m not going out in the street, for frick’s sake, it’s ridiculous o’clock and you shouldn’t be here yet.

Still at least he laughed when I said it was some kind of Christmas miracle that everything was in stock. Other drivers don’t find it amusing when customers celebrate their receipt of the actual things they ordered. But he liked it. I think maybe that was what encouraged him to be so chatty with me. You know, the bants.

But honestly, it is a fricking miracle.

To not get some sort of rejected toilet roll brand, for example, is amazing. Not quilts, no aloe to keep your bumhole soothed. Just paper you won’t put your finger through. It’s a miracle.

And 12 eggs, all in tact.

Double miracle.

He laughed a lot at that.

No, I see it now. I encouraged him.

Damnit.

Maybe we’ll have to start going back to the actual store…