Monday, 4 May 2009


“Do you remember that tv show from the 70’s?”, I asked Hubby as I easily lifted my half full shopping bag onto our kitchen counter.
“Which one exactly, Starsky and Hutch? Benny Hill? Van der Valk? he asked.
“Survivors”, I replied. He looked vacant.
“Look, whilst you were watching dubious Dutch detectives, some of us couldn’t sleep after watching a handful of people wandering around an apocalyptic Britain, everyone else having been wiped out by a killer virus. The tag line of the show was ‘One virus, millions dead, few survivors’”. Hubby was quiet.
“Sound familiar? It was bloody prophetic; honestly, they could rewrite that show at least ten times over given the veritable choice of viruses out there that are hell bent on getting us. It’s as though each individual virus is in cahoots with the other, like a well planned terrorist plot. Imagine it: ‘Bird flu? This is Black Death here. Over. It didn’t work. Handing the controls over to you. Roger. Over and out’. And so on and so forth they’ve passed the baton for years from MRSA, SARS , HIV, Blue tongue, Foot and Mouth, Mad cow disease and, drum roll please... swine flu! Hmm, The Personification of Pandemic disease, discuss. It sounds like an essay title”.
“And you sound a bit unhinged if you don’t mind my saying so”, said Hubby. I shrugged my shoulders and put the few provisions away. Hubby was appalled to see how much chocolate I’d bought.
“Dear God Alice. Don’t let the media get to you like this. I don’t think we need to stock up on rations just yet and especially not on chocolate”.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Torpoint’s supermarket is closing down today and walking around it was like drifting through some apocalyptic scene. Bare shelves which looked as though they’d been looted, miserable staff, one or two shoppers droning on about viruses and all the chocolate”, I said grabbing them from him before he scoffed the lot, “Was reduced to 10p a bag, so even the prices had harked back to the seventies”.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much love”, said Hubby, suddenly gathering me into his arms, “If there wasn’t a recession on I doubt that we’d ever had heard that a few sorry Mexicans had copped it nor that a few people in this country had raised temperatures and fatigue. It’s a hybrid of pig crunch and credit flu, which on reflection sounds like a tasty snack!”
“Well I hope you’re right”, I said apprehensively, snuggling into the folds of his sweater. No sooner had Hubby started to caress the back of my neck and kiss me, when number one son walked in.
“Jeeze get a room. I’m going to town”.
“You are most certainly not; you’ve got revision to do”.
“But it’s a Saturday!” he protested.
“I very much doubt your physics paper will be aware of that; there won’t be questions such as ‘Compare and contrast electricity and magnetism. No need to worry if you don’t know, just write NB: This subject wasn’t revised for as it clashed with a Saturday, which culturally is a day when students do sod all”.
“Your mother is right son”, said Hubby, “In a few weeks time these exams will be a distant memory and then, apart from getting a Saturday job and getting up at the crack of dawn and working in some menial task for eight hours, the time will be your own.”
“But what about...”
“The love of your life? Well, if she hopes to get good grades too then she’ll understand”. Furious, he snatched his mobile out of his pocket and turned on his heels. Within seconds our ears began to burn as he undoubtedly told his girlfriend, in no uncertain terms, how we were ruining his life. Hubby and I sighed simultaneously.
“Oh well, look on the bright side, there are only three more to follow in his footsteps.” I picked up the car keys.
“Where are you going?” asked Hubby.
“Plymouth. I don’t have GCSE’s to do but I do have a couple of birthday presents to buy. See you later”.
I returned home a few hours later, annoyed. Immensely and intensely. The world of retail is made up it of cretins. In one store am inexplicable beeping noise of such high frequency was sounding every 8 seconds, making my ears bleed. It had a similar effect to these Mosquito teenage deterrents. It made me feel quite queasy. I mentioned it to a teenage shop assistant.
“S’not my fault”, she retorted. I hadn’t for one minute suggested it was. They lost my custom. After that little fracas, I went and had a baked potato at a department store. With cheese and coleslaw. The spud had been sitting atop a heated counter; it was tepid and not, as is my preference, piping hot. I made this point.
“Bring it back if there’s something wrong with it”, the server barked at me, shoving my tray into my chest. Hmm. After a mouthful it was evident that there was and I did. Finally I went to Boots to acquire a gel for my daughter’s verruca. Boots own brand £2.99, Bazuka £5.29. A no brainer, only the Boots one advised ‘For use on over 12’s’. I asked to speak to the pharmacist, who, instead of apologising for extreme cautiousness on the part of Boots, dug herself a hole by suggesting that salicylic acid can’t be used on young skin. But salicylic acid is salicylic acid surely? Used on the infected feet of children for generations. When challenged that the exact same ingredients were in the child friendly Bazuka variety she said, “Well there is camphor in the Boots one and it is very toxic”. Oh, how so? Hubby was most amused by my grumpiness. “Hey it’s another of those baton carrying, terrorist diseases of yours. If swine flu won’t get us then surely verruca will!”


Alice Band said...

Is there not one person lurking out there?? Please say hello..

It's just me said...


(Sorry, read your post, but was too busy to reply as am now a dog owner. Obviously she has her own blog already....)

Sally said...


Have just been studpidly busy the last few week..... Sorry..

Silly Boots. How else can you get rid of veruccas? I remember the Survivors. Every so often an image of it pops into my mind. I remember that very unattractive man who wanted to singlehandedly repopulate the planet and got every woman pregnant...