Jesus Christ I think Im ready to kill someone or myself , sub zero temps now for almost 2 weeks and I am starting to feel like Jack Nicolson! Last week we got dumped on by 2ft of snow, blizzards and an endless stream of retail gurus and food chain experts. It appears as a community service I had failed my reason for existence by being unable to get milk, bread and newspapers (and fags) when the supermarkets could not either. How the fuck I was supposed to get out of the village to get provisions god only knows.
The snow arrived overnight Tuesday so I went out Wednesday morning, knowing the milkman would not deliver, to the dairy to collect my milk. 5 am in a blizzard. By 10am my greedy fucks of customers had bought the lot, good news for me you'd think ? Bollocks was it. For the next 3 days I had endless customers telling me how shit I am for not getting milk , same for bread same for papers. One customer turned up demanding milk which I had none, went mental at me for failing to get stock and told me he was off to Morrisons, 5 hours later, 5 HOURS !!! He pulls up outside my shop in his car jumps out and starts screaming at me that he'd spent 3 hours getting to the supermarket because I had no milk. Did they have any I asked, no was his reply so I told him to FUCK OFF to Sainsburys . Wanker all piss and wind .
Friday 10 December 2010
Saturday 27 November 2010
Snot and bogeys.
Everyday I listen to the same stories, moans, groans and pointless ramblings. I stand transfixed as I glaze over listening to odd view this village has of itself, don't these people know that I have ADS and an aversion listening to crap about what house is for sale and how much its on for, not worth it , he tried to sell last year couldn't shift it now he's spent a fortune doing it up , 10k on the front alone, Wheres he going? no idea I say but I do . Still all good for us in the village puts the prices up for us all, keep the place special. Aren't we lucky, of course you're lucky you're living rent free in the almshouse all paid for by me and my Mrs. Fuck me how far up you're own arse can you get in this village.
8.43am in she slides the Lady Dowager herself, landlords wife, proud member of the ruling class, penny pinching and sour old puss. Proud to clip the coupons to save a penny or two. Each month she waits by her door for the bank statement to arrive, excited, almost wet at the thought of the balance on her account she and her husband have accumulated over the years, a penny here a penny there, a good deal here, screw someone there. A favour done, a debt collected with interest of course, don't buy the best buy the cheapest, don't repair make do, lie cheat twist and turn make the bastards squirm. Switching the sherry in the bottles at the parish council Christmas party to the crap stuff saves her another few pennies to roll around in naked when they turn into pounds and the bank statement arrives.
She hands me a £5 note for her 50p Daily Mail, fuck me a note she must be heart broken to see her blue friend leave the warmth of her purse.
The veg man arrives as she slithers out the door muttering nothing clutching her purse tightly, a black or a Albanian might be lurking in the laurel bushes getting ready to pounce on her £4.50. They do that you know, it said so in the Daily Mail last Tuesday.
Veg is fresh and a joy to unpack, smelling of the fields and still wet with morning dew. Its journey has been long and the mornings have been early , some poor bastard drove to market today at 1am just for so ungrateful bastard to prod and tell me cabbage is cheaper in Aldi. Of course its fucking cheaper but its not on your doorstep.
My poor old lost soul comes in, hair all wild eyes bulging boney cheeks shinning, more bloody tea bags , thats 160 this week if I'd allowed her, another pint of milk , two tomatoes and a small bar of chocolate, if she asks me one more time where the bread is I'll scream. Old-timers disease has got her but she loves it, wandering around the village mad as a box of frogs . I'd love to know what she does with all the stuff she buys , everyday the same thing no more than £3
but it gets her out the house , bless her.
Fucking walkers come in with muddy boots and snot dripping off their noses, thanks alot mud and snot to wipe up after they've gone. Stop gawping at my fresh cheesecake , pies and bread pudding, stop telling me how wonderful my shops is for gods sake stop telling me you're having lunch in the pub and not here. Buy something , christ knows you've dripped enough snot about the place, and for fuck sakes can you ask your friend to pull the Titanic of a bogey out of her nose before it drops on my cupcakes.
The butcher arrives, looks at me with that poor bastard look and leaves me alone again with mud, snot and a fucking bogey the size of Berlin on my marble topped counter.
Why oh why did I do this ?
Here he comes I can see him crossing the street, flat cap on his head, polyester track pants stained and worn , the warden from the almshouses, landlords little bitch. Thinks he has the right to touch every piece of fruit and veg and buy nothing. Fuck off I scream in my head as I welcome him with a smile when he enters MY shop. Fuck off to Morrisons and touch the fruit and veg, do you have a hard on for the feel of brassica does an apple do it for you, coz I doubt your Mrs has done anything for you for a long time.
I sell him his wifes magazine and wish him the best day ahead while screaming fuck off in my head .
The landlord skuttles by , speeding up as he walks past the shop, head down in shame, thinks he's the Mayor of the village. Ive seen him standing on his balcony surveying the village from his vantage point like the wanker he really is, what a prick
He's gone and Im settling down for a cuppa at the counter, out of the corner of my eye I see another fucking bogey hanging off the fluffy pink icing of one of Tinkerbells fairy cakes, fuck it I'll sell it anyway.
8.43am in she slides the Lady Dowager herself, landlords wife, proud member of the ruling class, penny pinching and sour old puss. Proud to clip the coupons to save a penny or two. Each month she waits by her door for the bank statement to arrive, excited, almost wet at the thought of the balance on her account she and her husband have accumulated over the years, a penny here a penny there, a good deal here, screw someone there. A favour done, a debt collected with interest of course, don't buy the best buy the cheapest, don't repair make do, lie cheat twist and turn make the bastards squirm. Switching the sherry in the bottles at the parish council Christmas party to the crap stuff saves her another few pennies to roll around in naked when they turn into pounds and the bank statement arrives.
She hands me a £5 note for her 50p Daily Mail, fuck me a note she must be heart broken to see her blue friend leave the warmth of her purse.
The veg man arrives as she slithers out the door muttering nothing clutching her purse tightly, a black or a Albanian might be lurking in the laurel bushes getting ready to pounce on her £4.50. They do that you know, it said so in the Daily Mail last Tuesday.
Veg is fresh and a joy to unpack, smelling of the fields and still wet with morning dew. Its journey has been long and the mornings have been early , some poor bastard drove to market today at 1am just for so ungrateful bastard to prod and tell me cabbage is cheaper in Aldi. Of course its fucking cheaper but its not on your doorstep.
My poor old lost soul comes in, hair all wild eyes bulging boney cheeks shinning, more bloody tea bags , thats 160 this week if I'd allowed her, another pint of milk , two tomatoes and a small bar of chocolate, if she asks me one more time where the bread is I'll scream. Old-timers disease has got her but she loves it, wandering around the village mad as a box of frogs . I'd love to know what she does with all the stuff she buys , everyday the same thing no more than £3
but it gets her out the house , bless her.
Fucking walkers come in with muddy boots and snot dripping off their noses, thanks alot mud and snot to wipe up after they've gone. Stop gawping at my fresh cheesecake , pies and bread pudding, stop telling me how wonderful my shops is for gods sake stop telling me you're having lunch in the pub and not here. Buy something , christ knows you've dripped enough snot about the place, and for fuck sakes can you ask your friend to pull the Titanic of a bogey out of her nose before it drops on my cupcakes.
The butcher arrives, looks at me with that poor bastard look and leaves me alone again with mud, snot and a fucking bogey the size of Berlin on my marble topped counter.
Why oh why did I do this ?
Here he comes I can see him crossing the street, flat cap on his head, polyester track pants stained and worn , the warden from the almshouses, landlords little bitch. Thinks he has the right to touch every piece of fruit and veg and buy nothing. Fuck off I scream in my head as I welcome him with a smile when he enters MY shop. Fuck off to Morrisons and touch the fruit and veg, do you have a hard on for the feel of brassica does an apple do it for you, coz I doubt your Mrs has done anything for you for a long time.
I sell him his wifes magazine and wish him the best day ahead while screaming fuck off in my head .
The landlord skuttles by , speeding up as he walks past the shop, head down in shame, thinks he's the Mayor of the village. Ive seen him standing on his balcony surveying the village from his vantage point like the wanker he really is, what a prick
He's gone and Im settling down for a cuppa at the counter, out of the corner of my eye I see another fucking bogey hanging off the fluffy pink icing of one of Tinkerbells fairy cakes, fuck it I'll sell it anyway.
Tuesday 2 November 2010
Canker
I have declared today Cancer day,or canker as I call it, counted 7 cases of canker today, what is it with these people, unless its canker it ain't worth having. If you joined up all the diseased areas every part of the body would be attacked by canker. What is it with this village? I fear for my life living and working here , is it the pylons or the water or is it just pay back for being so selfish and self obsessed. We got canker of the brain, lung, cock, tongue. Its in his balls , her skin and his too. One breast then the next, this gland and that gland riddled with it when they opened her up. From top to bottom but not as bad as my Bill when he had it.
I feel left out , no badge, I haven't lived until I've had the canker. Im crossing my fingers that I don't catch it from one of this lot. Bloody hell, all I wanted to do was sell nice cheese not end up with the big C
8 am. first canker today is a straight forward case of lungs , this is a new case so I've got a few months to go of this one. Then its an update on a little growth on the back that the Dr wants to have off on account of the history of skin canker. Only a week, never mind as long as we all keep our spirits up. Double breast on Thursday with a reconstruction Friday, soon be good as new, I thought they'd got the lot last time, sad its come back so quick.
Listening by the till, oh that's nothing mate , I had canker of the knob, went in to the GP on the Monday slicing my old boy open by the Wednesday , Oh it don't stop there mate, spread to me tongue. I wonder how that happened ?
Bit of a break , time for a cuppa tea and draw breath before brain tumour comes in for a slice of ham not too thick mind , got no pork and apple sausages ? Not today, got Sage. No fuck it. Sorry about your brain.
No more for a few hours, maybe I should put on a white coat and start charging. By midday Im bloody depressed , I look at all the moles on my arms watching for changes. Feel my balls just in case, nothing thank goodness. Men my age can be riddled with the stuff, thank fuck smoked, drank and ate shit all my life .
"Gotanybacca?" plenty for you mate !
I feel left out , no badge, I haven't lived until I've had the canker. Im crossing my fingers that I don't catch it from one of this lot. Bloody hell, all I wanted to do was sell nice cheese not end up with the big C
8 am. first canker today is a straight forward case of lungs , this is a new case so I've got a few months to go of this one. Then its an update on a little growth on the back that the Dr wants to have off on account of the history of skin canker. Only a week, never mind as long as we all keep our spirits up. Double breast on Thursday with a reconstruction Friday, soon be good as new, I thought they'd got the lot last time, sad its come back so quick.
Listening by the till, oh that's nothing mate , I had canker of the knob, went in to the GP on the Monday slicing my old boy open by the Wednesday , Oh it don't stop there mate, spread to me tongue. I wonder how that happened ?
Bit of a break , time for a cuppa tea and draw breath before brain tumour comes in for a slice of ham not too thick mind , got no pork and apple sausages ? Not today, got Sage. No fuck it. Sorry about your brain.
No more for a few hours, maybe I should put on a white coat and start charging. By midday Im bloody depressed , I look at all the moles on my arms watching for changes. Feel my balls just in case, nothing thank goodness. Men my age can be riddled with the stuff, thank fuck smoked, drank and ate shit all my life .
"Gotanybacca?" plenty for you mate !
Monday 1 November 2010
Monday is the hardest word
Today is Monday , November 1st , outside its cold, damp and a little dark. My mood is a little dark and a bit damp. Halloween is over and I've still got a bloody pumpkin in my window the size of Pluto. With the passing of Halloween the bastard thing is now uglier than before, its not even orange its a beige colour and looks like something from a 1950's Sci Fi horror movie that any moment is going to hatch into a brain sucking alien. Amazing how past it everything looks one minute after midnight.
Im bloody cold, need to stop eating or Im going to end up fat, diabetic walking with a stick. If I end up having to where polar fleece and jog pants somebody shoot me.
Door opens , no bell yet, in comes the nice old man that lives in the village caring for his wife of a lifetime. Nice man calls me babe , I assume because he spends all day by his wifes bedside and calls her babe , Im not even here to him he's thinking of his wife. A loaf of bread, some spuds and an extra butter just in case. His daughters over for lunch, she's not fond of sprouts so no need for any today. Nice man, a cook, a Captain and now a carer,happy to sit by his beloved wife all day long in front of the fire holding her hand. He tells me he had a funny turn last Thursday, worry all over his face. Just like my grandad.
A delivery arrives so off he goes, "see you babe", I watch him walk up the street careful to cross the road. Good lad see you tomorrow.
Busy day for a Monday, regulars gone, thank fuck. No school kids today still half term, shame , I'm missing my yummy mums
Can someone please tell me why the fuck every time I put the cheese away someone comes in and asks for a cheese roll. And why when the ham is sat on the slicer they always want cheese. I throw half a tomato away and the next customers wants tomato , i got cucumber they want tomato. And before you say it even when I prepare and have lots of everything sliced up ready to go no one wants anything .
2pm and its starting to get slow, soon it'll be dark my first winters evening, will I suffer from light depravation, by March will I have big nocturnal eyes and translucent skin , probably not.
Today feels like Im a kid again off school while everyone is at work, silent .
Postman arrives 2 bills and a cheque book, how poetic is that?
Im bloody cold, need to stop eating or Im going to end up fat, diabetic walking with a stick. If I end up having to where polar fleece and jog pants somebody shoot me.
Door opens , no bell yet, in comes the nice old man that lives in the village caring for his wife of a lifetime. Nice man calls me babe , I assume because he spends all day by his wifes bedside and calls her babe , Im not even here to him he's thinking of his wife. A loaf of bread, some spuds and an extra butter just in case. His daughters over for lunch, she's not fond of sprouts so no need for any today. Nice man, a cook, a Captain and now a carer,happy to sit by his beloved wife all day long in front of the fire holding her hand. He tells me he had a funny turn last Thursday, worry all over his face. Just like my grandad.
A delivery arrives so off he goes, "see you babe", I watch him walk up the street careful to cross the road. Good lad see you tomorrow.
Busy day for a Monday, regulars gone, thank fuck. No school kids today still half term, shame , I'm missing my yummy mums
Can someone please tell me why the fuck every time I put the cheese away someone comes in and asks for a cheese roll. And why when the ham is sat on the slicer they always want cheese. I throw half a tomato away and the next customers wants tomato , i got cucumber they want tomato. And before you say it even when I prepare and have lots of everything sliced up ready to go no one wants anything .
2pm and its starting to get slow, soon it'll be dark my first winters evening, will I suffer from light depravation, by March will I have big nocturnal eyes and translucent skin , probably not.
Today feels like Im a kid again off school while everyone is at work, silent .
Postman arrives 2 bills and a cheque book, how poetic is that?
Saturday 30 October 2010
Brizzol ladies , silver jewelry and purple broc.
The noise is loud the laughter is curing my hangover, good, the shop is slowly filling with lovely lovely ladies in hand knit jumpers, silver jewelry and Brizzol accents. Lovely lovely ladies drinking coffee and tea , perched on crates and stools cramming a corner with Brisol laughter and the shop full of love. Im loving it at last , paper shufflers can wait , the landlady is twitching with envy , eager to get back to her husband to report on the hippies in the shop, probably she thinks a gang of knitters here to spread the loose knit, hand knit way of life onto the uptight acrylic village jumpers she holds so dear. She clutches her pearls close to her throat and pulls her poly/wool M&S twin set (bought in the sale in 1995) to her breast and slides out beaten by the laughter of these lovely lovely ladies , Guardian readers the lot of them I can hear her mutter, comforted by the copy of the Daily Mail shes tucked in her knickers for safety.
Im loving it, actually this is the reason why I do this, the lovely lovely hand knit ladies raised my pulse yesterday over coffee, cake and chocolate stars and today they're doing it again. In between pots of tea and milkshakes the villagers look on with suspicion , half an eye on their change the other half on the glinting silver jewelry sipping tea in the corner.
My mind wanders again and Im in a French movie , Manon de source or even Chocolat, a small village the outsiders and the enraged locals. Colour !!! Thank goodness for colour, no drab grey parkas, navy fleeces, not a pair of stained polyester sweatpants on Brisol ladies. Reds, purple velvet bags,white hair, heather melange jumpers, white poppy's , no beige, no hand knitted Reebok here.
I've been running around, purple broccoli by the bag full, eggs by the dozen, bread by the bike load and endless pots of tea and coffee. The cakes sell well , its bloody amazing , people love my shop, a lovely lovely lady not from Brisol tells me its the best shop she's ever been in, thank you I say and inside I'm bursting , holding on with all my upbringing to stop myself from screaming out the door at my neighbours as they walk by loaded down with shit from Asda I want to scream at them "DO YOU KNOW THIS IS THE BEST SHOP THIS LOVELY LOVELY LADY NOT FROM BRIZZOL HAS EVER BEEN IN AND YOU ARSEHOLES DON"T USE IT, FUCK YOU"
I wonder if I m cut out for this pillar of the community malarky , I think I'm better at the pissed up in the corner , best be avoided sort of member of the community. He's ok a little bit odd , might bite but funny up to a point, best avoid or he might be honest.
The lovely lovely hand knit ladies have gone, we hugged and I'm encouraged to keep going. One day I'll have the landlords wife in a loose knit wooly with a trail of silver snails around her neck, never again to leave her trail of despair in my shop gain.
Thanks lovely lovely ladies from Brizzol, come back soon and bring me a pair of happy socks
xxxxx
Im loving it, actually this is the reason why I do this, the lovely lovely hand knit ladies raised my pulse yesterday over coffee, cake and chocolate stars and today they're doing it again. In between pots of tea and milkshakes the villagers look on with suspicion , half an eye on their change the other half on the glinting silver jewelry sipping tea in the corner.
My mind wanders again and Im in a French movie , Manon de source or even Chocolat, a small village the outsiders and the enraged locals. Colour !!! Thank goodness for colour, no drab grey parkas, navy fleeces, not a pair of stained polyester sweatpants on Brisol ladies. Reds, purple velvet bags,white hair, heather melange jumpers, white poppy's , no beige, no hand knitted Reebok here.
I've been running around, purple broccoli by the bag full, eggs by the dozen, bread by the bike load and endless pots of tea and coffee. The cakes sell well , its bloody amazing , people love my shop, a lovely lovely lady not from Brisol tells me its the best shop she's ever been in, thank you I say and inside I'm bursting , holding on with all my upbringing to stop myself from screaming out the door at my neighbours as they walk by loaded down with shit from Asda I want to scream at them "DO YOU KNOW THIS IS THE BEST SHOP THIS LOVELY LOVELY LADY NOT FROM BRIZZOL HAS EVER BEEN IN AND YOU ARSEHOLES DON"T USE IT, FUCK YOU"
I wonder if I m cut out for this pillar of the community malarky , I think I'm better at the pissed up in the corner , best be avoided sort of member of the community. He's ok a little bit odd , might bite but funny up to a point, best avoid or he might be honest.
The lovely lovely hand knit ladies have gone, we hugged and I'm encouraged to keep going. One day I'll have the landlords wife in a loose knit wooly with a trail of silver snails around her neck, never again to leave her trail of despair in my shop gain.
Thanks lovely lovely ladies from Brizzol, come back soon and bring me a pair of happy socks
xxxxx
Thursday 28 October 2010
Ronnie Barker was a genius
Its 11am and the last of the regulars has scuttled in collected their newspaper passed a smart arse remark and buggered off without buying a single thing other than their daily rag.
Fo six months I have stood behind my counter trying to best serve the residents of this small English village , smiling and pretending to care about their cancers, dead relatives, lost cats, day trips to the supermarkets. I've heard all about the niggers, the blacks, the eastern Europeans, the poofs, queers and fags that have invaded this great land of theirs. I've smelt their piss, bad breath, breakfast , shit in their kids nappies and all the while I've smiled.
As I stand and take the cash they begrudge handing over I've been told I don't know what Im doing , its their shop, how dare i change things, I've been called a fucking cunt, idiot, thief and a liar. All because I get out of bed at 5.30am , untie the daily newspapers , lay them out in neat tidy rows , title by title, Tv mags on a Tuesday, Peoples friend on a Wednesday, Racing Pigeon on a Thursday, Farmers weekly on a Friday and the fat, heavy weekend papers that never get read.
If I forget to stuff the TV guide in the Express back they come to tell me how the last owner never got it wrong. If the Weekend section doesn't arrive they want to know why they should pay full price for their £1.90 Telegraph on a Saturday , because thats the fucking price thats why.
Have I got nutmeg? wheres the fire lighters?, how much ?, not a please not a thank you only a deep groan and a sigh when I don't have nutmeg the same nutmeg they forgot to get at ASDA when the bought all the other things we sell here at the village shop.
Slowly over the last six months I have painted the store, put in new shelves, bought new stock, fresh veg, pies and cakes made daily , tasty hams and cold cuts . Ground coffee,a pretty little tea room with an amazing selection of teas,cakes and sandwiches. Serving hot food that rivals the more established eating houses in the village. Bread baked daily, toast buttered with Somerset Farmhouse butter dripping with local honey so sweet and fragrant it could make you soul weep.
Idiots come in unable to grunt more than two words together i refuse to answer until they pronounce the words in a way in which I can understand them. I don't care that you can't speak but I give a shit when you can't even grunt please and thank you.
I have a groups of regulars, the morning paper shuffle lining up outside no matter what time I open waiting like old pissed stained drunks for the pub doors to open. By 8.30 most have been and gone clearing the way for the mums to arrive on their way to drop the kids off at school. One of the old boys hangs back in his grubby polyester track pants and stained acrylic polar fleece. The red veins in his nose sweating as he trys to imagine what it would be like to be with a women again.
I break off to serve one of my favorites a bottle of white wine to help her ease the pain of the memory of when she was raped as a small girl evacuated away from London during the war to the safety of Norfolk and the torment thats to last a lifetime
My mums are few but they are happy and full of motherly love for their children, their bodies have gone and their faces now show the years of keeping house. But today its tennis , coffee morning, yoga , keep fit , pottery. The book club is on a break so they fill the hour by drinking tea and gossiping in my tea room. Always polite and always grateful for my service. Quick to tell me that they are happy I am here. Off they go promising next time to buy more and always very sorry not have have spent more than they have.
The day goes by and I wander off , the landlords wife slides in , nose twitching like a rats , arms folded in disapproval of the changes, 15 years since she was the shopkeepers wife so why does she still think this is her shop. Her husband now collects the rent and in return sits back and watches his building crumble , all the while he skulks past the front door avoiding his responsibilities . I thank her for her custom as she counts out the 50p for her Daily Mail, waiting until another customer enters the shop before she announces for the 3rd day in a row that the milk she bought from me yesterday soured within 10 minutes of opening, today is the day I tell her she should stop looking at the milk. What else can I say?
Quiet and my mind starts to think about flying to America, China HK , Italy or France. I think of the parties and dinners I could be going to in places I've been to many times. Right now i could be sipping cocktails and eating fresh pizza dripping with mozzarella cheese in a bar in Kowloon high up in the sky overlooking Hong Kong Island. the music thumps the lights are dim, Im on fire and my customers love me, laughing at my jokes, seeking my advice, happy to flirt back to me as I make them feel special.
Slam "Gootanybacca"I wake up and another prick in a track suit wants a pack of cheap smokes.
Sorry I only carry a few brands I reply in such away that tells the guy to fuck off
"Whatyougot?GotanyMayfair?"
Of course I've got Mayfair you cheap bastard , nobody smokes Marlboro, Winston. Piccadily, Dunhill , Rothmans or Players anymore, its not about the taste its about the price. Cheap cheap cheap just like the twats that smoke them.
Fo six months I have stood behind my counter trying to best serve the residents of this small English village , smiling and pretending to care about their cancers, dead relatives, lost cats, day trips to the supermarkets. I've heard all about the niggers, the blacks, the eastern Europeans, the poofs, queers and fags that have invaded this great land of theirs. I've smelt their piss, bad breath, breakfast , shit in their kids nappies and all the while I've smiled.
As I stand and take the cash they begrudge handing over I've been told I don't know what Im doing , its their shop, how dare i change things, I've been called a fucking cunt, idiot, thief and a liar. All because I get out of bed at 5.30am , untie the daily newspapers , lay them out in neat tidy rows , title by title, Tv mags on a Tuesday, Peoples friend on a Wednesday, Racing Pigeon on a Thursday, Farmers weekly on a Friday and the fat, heavy weekend papers that never get read.
If I forget to stuff the TV guide in the Express back they come to tell me how the last owner never got it wrong. If the Weekend section doesn't arrive they want to know why they should pay full price for their £1.90 Telegraph on a Saturday , because thats the fucking price thats why.
Have I got nutmeg? wheres the fire lighters?, how much ?, not a please not a thank you only a deep groan and a sigh when I don't have nutmeg the same nutmeg they forgot to get at ASDA when the bought all the other things we sell here at the village shop.
Slowly over the last six months I have painted the store, put in new shelves, bought new stock, fresh veg, pies and cakes made daily , tasty hams and cold cuts . Ground coffee,a pretty little tea room with an amazing selection of teas,cakes and sandwiches. Serving hot food that rivals the more established eating houses in the village. Bread baked daily, toast buttered with Somerset Farmhouse butter dripping with local honey so sweet and fragrant it could make you soul weep.
Idiots come in unable to grunt more than two words together i refuse to answer until they pronounce the words in a way in which I can understand them. I don't care that you can't speak but I give a shit when you can't even grunt please and thank you.
I have a groups of regulars, the morning paper shuffle lining up outside no matter what time I open waiting like old pissed stained drunks for the pub doors to open. By 8.30 most have been and gone clearing the way for the mums to arrive on their way to drop the kids off at school. One of the old boys hangs back in his grubby polyester track pants and stained acrylic polar fleece. The red veins in his nose sweating as he trys to imagine what it would be like to be with a women again.
I break off to serve one of my favorites a bottle of white wine to help her ease the pain of the memory of when she was raped as a small girl evacuated away from London during the war to the safety of Norfolk and the torment thats to last a lifetime
My mums are few but they are happy and full of motherly love for their children, their bodies have gone and their faces now show the years of keeping house. But today its tennis , coffee morning, yoga , keep fit , pottery. The book club is on a break so they fill the hour by drinking tea and gossiping in my tea room. Always polite and always grateful for my service. Quick to tell me that they are happy I am here. Off they go promising next time to buy more and always very sorry not have have spent more than they have.
The day goes by and I wander off , the landlords wife slides in , nose twitching like a rats , arms folded in disapproval of the changes, 15 years since she was the shopkeepers wife so why does she still think this is her shop. Her husband now collects the rent and in return sits back and watches his building crumble , all the while he skulks past the front door avoiding his responsibilities . I thank her for her custom as she counts out the 50p for her Daily Mail, waiting until another customer enters the shop before she announces for the 3rd day in a row that the milk she bought from me yesterday soured within 10 minutes of opening, today is the day I tell her she should stop looking at the milk. What else can I say?
Quiet and my mind starts to think about flying to America, China HK , Italy or France. I think of the parties and dinners I could be going to in places I've been to many times. Right now i could be sipping cocktails and eating fresh pizza dripping with mozzarella cheese in a bar in Kowloon high up in the sky overlooking Hong Kong Island. the music thumps the lights are dim, Im on fire and my customers love me, laughing at my jokes, seeking my advice, happy to flirt back to me as I make them feel special.
Slam "Gootanybacca"I wake up and another prick in a track suit wants a pack of cheap smokes.
Sorry I only carry a few brands I reply in such away that tells the guy to fuck off
"Whatyougot?GotanyMayfair?"
Of course I've got Mayfair you cheap bastard , nobody smokes Marlboro, Winston. Piccadily, Dunhill , Rothmans or Players anymore, its not about the taste its about the price. Cheap cheap cheap just like the twats that smoke them.
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