there’s a queue up the road which means I’ve missed the ambulance. you’d think the newsagent down unthank road would have a copy of GQ to take up the hospital while the bones are being oiled, but as I’m fingering around between ‘large ladies’ and ‘inevitable juxtapositions’ up on that very high shelf I’m beginning to think its just not there. there’s nuts, but I don’t think it would be appropriate. I’m even tempted to have a quick marie clare and be done with it, but I’ve spent so long on this shelf now that I’m thinking I might have to actually buy something from it. curiously, model train making is up here, but I can’t bring myself to cough for that, so as a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and I’m jangling the change in my pocket, I pick up a copy of ‘grunt’ and head over to the counter…
not really, of course. I went up the co-op and they had GQ in there, but by the time I’d queued behind the man with a vegetable and a switch card and then legged it back up the road, a pickfords van was poking into the carriageway and there was a sizeable pile up back up to the elms. better run. too late. as I turn the corner, the ambulance is pulling away and I can just about make the handle of the wheelchair through the back window. I kind of wave a bit, but it doesn’t really mean anything and a deviant in a polo gives me a brow-furrowed grin which makes me trip over my own stupidness.
everything was alright though, even though they were a bit surly about lifting it down the stair. its health and safety gone mad or something. I’ll go back later and spend 4 hours getting 2 computers to talk to each other but in the meantime I’ve eaten too much birthday cake and so I’m just sitting here until I shrink.