Dolly and I decided on a stop at home day yesterday. I did point out that Dolly stays at home every day but she seemed to think that was beside the point. I’m going to have to make a trip to Sainsbury’s in Swansea soon but a small amount of loin-girding is needed to face up to that.
It’s not that I’m becoming a shut-in, simply that I’ve hit a low point on my energy scale.
I was woken from my afternoon siesta by some sweet-talking bloke from Kwik-Fit, calling to check that I was happy with my tyre-fitting visit. He was not amused to learn that, while the actual supply and fitting was excellent, I was unimpressed with the pressure put on me by the engineer to have other tyres replaced, a full service and heaven knows what-all before my recently serviced car was safe to drive. I don’t appreciate being put under that kind of sales pressure, and I told the guy so. I also told him that several of my friends had reported similar experiences. He ended the call rather swiftly after that.
Shame they don’t have an ‘is this guy taking a nap?’ button to press before calling. I doubt I’d have been quite so forthright if I’d not just been woken. Still, I wasn’t rude, so I came out ahead on that encounter, I think.
The recent spell of hot weather has been unkind to me in a way that I’m too delicate to discuss in public. I bought a tub of antiseptic ointment the day before yesterday and am grunting and groaning twice a day to get it applied to my nether regions after bathing, using a hand-held shaving mirror to ensure that I’ve got it into the appropriate places. Not a pretty sight.
On which happy thought I shall sit back and re-watch last night’s episode of Torchwood. There are horrid things in that big tank of alien life and poison gas that put my temporary bottie-problem into the shade. I hope they get to eat the Prime Minister. An appropriate fate for Prime Ministers, that, being eaten by horrid poison gas breathing alien life forms, at least if our present PM is anything to go by.
