Yes, I'm changing...
Yesterday was not a good day. I seem to be at that stage in my life when I don't really know whether I am coming or going. You may think that this is because of son number two's pending departure, but you'd be wrong, as I seem to have that covered. He still hasn't got any bloody curtains, but hey ho, the mornings are dark and as he'll be running his life on the student clock, by the time he gets up in the morning, the lady in the house opposite will have done a morning's work, so won't be there to be shocked at the sight of him in semi-undress. She looks like she's been there some years actually, so I expect she has seen just about everything that could possibly go on in the den of iniquity over the road.
So back to my bad day. You'll know from previous ramblings that the jolly old menopause has been riding shotgun with me over the last few months. I realised yesterday as I was staggering around Reading looking for birthday presents for son number two (it's today, talk about sailing close to the wind) that carrying seven carrier bags in Marks and Spencer is not advisable when the sweat is running down your face and neck, creating a very unique water feature around the bosom area.
I must of looked like I was about to explode, and with no hands free to delicately pat the sweat away, I resorted to grabbing a pair of size 8 trousers off the rail and running into the changing room, barely registering the snort of derision from the girl in charge as she noticed the size of the trousers I was dragging behind me.
Throwing everything on the floor, including the trousers which are obviously manufactured for the crazy stick people who live in Reading, I tore off my shirt and flapped at myself with the birthday card I had spent half at hour choosing in Clintons. Once the hottie had passed, I redressed and walked out of the changing room to be faced with the same girl. She held out her hand for the trousers. 'Any good Madam?' she asked, her tone of voice insinuating that perhaps I had thought that there was a 1 in front of the 8. 'Yes, they were perfect', said I, clutching the trousers for all they were worth. 'I just need to go and look for a top to go with them'.
I didn't bother waiting for a response, but hung them where I thought they would cause most disruption...on the men's thermal socks rail. That'll teach her...
I also realised yesterday that my joints are less forgiving now. Checking my watch, and deciding that I had to leave there and then to avoid the rush hour traffic, I headed for the escalator to the car park. Now I am normally able to skip up these steps, but it would appear that those days are also gone. Puffing like someone with a 60-a-day habit, I resigned myself to resting the now eight carrier bags on the step in front of me, and just stood still letting the escalator do its job.
And don't even get me started on the search for a Colin the Caterpillar birthday cake for son number two (a family tradition, before you ask). I mean, what kind of store runs out of them, and has an assistant who thinks that a Percy Pig cake is a good alternative?
But today is another day.
Surely it must be an improvement on yesterday...mustn't it?
So back to my bad day. You'll know from previous ramblings that the jolly old menopause has been riding shotgun with me over the last few months. I realised yesterday as I was staggering around Reading looking for birthday presents for son number two (it's today, talk about sailing close to the wind) that carrying seven carrier bags in Marks and Spencer is not advisable when the sweat is running down your face and neck, creating a very unique water feature around the bosom area.
I must of looked like I was about to explode, and with no hands free to delicately pat the sweat away, I resorted to grabbing a pair of size 8 trousers off the rail and running into the changing room, barely registering the snort of derision from the girl in charge as she noticed the size of the trousers I was dragging behind me.
Throwing everything on the floor, including the trousers which are obviously manufactured for the crazy stick people who live in Reading, I tore off my shirt and flapped at myself with the birthday card I had spent half at hour choosing in Clintons. Once the hottie had passed, I redressed and walked out of the changing room to be faced with the same girl. She held out her hand for the trousers. 'Any good Madam?' she asked, her tone of voice insinuating that perhaps I had thought that there was a 1 in front of the 8. 'Yes, they were perfect', said I, clutching the trousers for all they were worth. 'I just need to go and look for a top to go with them'.
I didn't bother waiting for a response, but hung them where I thought they would cause most disruption...on the men's thermal socks rail. That'll teach her...
I also realised yesterday that my joints are less forgiving now. Checking my watch, and deciding that I had to leave there and then to avoid the rush hour traffic, I headed for the escalator to the car park. Now I am normally able to skip up these steps, but it would appear that those days are also gone. Puffing like someone with a 60-a-day habit, I resigned myself to resting the now eight carrier bags on the step in front of me, and just stood still letting the escalator do its job.
And don't even get me started on the search for a Colin the Caterpillar birthday cake for son number two (a family tradition, before you ask). I mean, what kind of store runs out of them, and has an assistant who thinks that a Percy Pig cake is a good alternative?
But today is another day.
Surely it must be an improvement on yesterday...mustn't it?
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