Podward

I was in the town with my mother the other day and she suggested going into Woolworths to look at the reduced stuff. Half the store was already blocked off and empty. The place was full of people scouring the shelves for a few pre-Christmas bargains but it felt like we were all picking over the carcass of a dead animal. I felt quite stifled and repulsed and had to get out. Our little Woolworths was somewhere I shopped quite frequently because there is nowhere else quite like it, certainly not here. Ok so Tesco do a lot of the same stuff but it is a two mile hike down there and I could do Woolworths on my way home from work, or on a walk to town, far more easily. At the end of November it’s always been first port of call for little things to stuff in the pockets of the advent calendar, in the summer the little garden centre bit helped me find odd and sods for the garden without having to go out of town for the full garden centre works, and I could always be sure of getting a banana or shrimp fix in the pick’n’mix if the mood came upon me. I have been to Woolies for all sorts of everyday stuff from last minute birthday presents to bowls for the cat to eat out of, fabric dye to fairy lights, seeds for the garden to sweets for a rainy day. I bought my little cherry tree from Woolies several years ago and it is established and frothy with snowy blossom in the spring. A couple of years ago when we were trying to create some outdoor lights I managed to get some utensil holders in Woolies which we nailed onto posts and put tea lights in them. This year we needed to replace a knackered garden bench and toddled off to Woolies to get a small cheap one because the garden centre ones were either to big or too pricey. I always knew I could find something in there and I shall miss the familiarity and reassurance of its presence.

I had to work last Saturday morning – well, ‘had to’ is a bit strong, I am down to work one Saturday in 7 or something but I could have opted out if I’d wished to. Since the government decided that doctors should be available more often we now have a surgery on Saturday mornings. Only for pre-booked appointments though, we don’t have people just wandering in off the street. And because we have extra surgery hours we have to have extra staff hours to cover it so we were encouraged to volunteer, even those of us who don’t actually have any truck with reception work as a rule. I think my name was put in without my really agreeing one way or another but since it gives me a chance to work at grass roots level again I don’t have any objection. Officers mucking in with the foot soldiers don’t ya know, what what..

Anyway my Saturday came around. Wild and wet and windy it was on Saturday and the last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed so I guess I probably wasn’t at my peak. The first thing I did at work was to shut myself in the porch, on the wrong side of the door entry system and the keys on the other side of the door. ‘Oh bother’ I said to myself, or words to that effect. I felt very silly obviously, standing in a small porch with a locked door either side of me, glass doors and windows onto the street so any passer-by would be able to see me stuck in my waterless goldfish bowl. Mortification, and all that. I didn’t expect to be in there long as I expected my colleague to arrive any moment, and I would have to explain, red-faced what I had done. If only. It would of course happen the week that she forgot she was working a Saturday and therefore didn’t arrive to aid me. I was in there for half an hour and, oh the ignominy of it all, it wasn’t her that let me out it was the combined efforts of the first patient and the duty doctor. I won’t live this one down for a while.

Lesson learned. Always carry a bag I can put over my head!

It all happened on the same day hubby got his news about his Deacon training. He has been approved and can go forward. Life throws these strange curves at you now and then. Only think what this means for my two babes - which has the greater street-cred annihilation factor, a morris-dancing mother or a dog-collared father?