The checkout operator had paused to alert a supervisor of a problem with her till. The lady in front of me had just loaded her shopping onto the conveyor belt and the customer being served was waiting to pay, I presume.
I was happy to wait and was rather enjoying the time to stand and observe those around me. (Those conversational gems might crop up, one never knows).
It was a busy Monday morning. Several tills were unmanned, clearly something the hovering supervisor was not happy with. He signalled for a young lad to man the till next to me. It was of no use to me of course, it displayed a, “baskets only” sign. My trolley was rather full.
No one joined the young lad at the basket checkout.
“Excuse me Madam, would you like to go to that one?” the supervisor appeared before me. I glanced uncertainly at the checkout next to us,
“That’s baskets only,” I reminded him.
“It doesn’t matter, you’ll be ages here, otherwise,” he told me, “go ahead, use that one,”
I was dubious about this instruction but far be it from me to question a supervisor. I trundled my trolley to the basket checkout and grinned at the young lad who stared at me blankly,
“I have been instructed to come here,” I smiled, nodding towards the supervisor who gave me the thumbs up.
The lad looked around. I was the only one near. He shrugged and waited as I began unloading my trolley. I had a lot of shopping.
That’s when the bearded man with the basket of several small items, joined the queue. I was aware that he had plonked the divider half way along the conveyor belt. I was still loading my shopping. How rude. I piled as much as I could into the now limited space and left the rest in the trolley as the lad had not yet begun ringing items through.
“I don’t have room to load it all, you had better start,” I instructed.
Without changing his expression, which was one of complete indifference, he began passing the goods through and I began throwing them into whatever bags I could grab from my half full trolley. It was a slow process as, in my attempt to fit everything I could on the conveyor belt, my normal neatly categorised items had spilled over into the wrong sections. To make matters worse, I am still not meant to carry heavy bags so had to use twice the usual number to make sure they were light enough for me to transport. The boy did not offer to help pack.
A female supervisor caught my attention to my left, as she called out sharply, more sharply than I thought necessary,
“Were you told to use this checkout? Only it is basket only.”
Bearded man looked smug and I thought he glared at me a little.
“Yes, I was told to use this one,” I confirmed.
“Oh, well,” she said, darting an accusing glance at both me and the other supervisor as though we were in cahoots.
By now, others with baskets had joined the queue. I continued to load the conveyor belt with the rest of the items in my trolly, having to slip them in before the bearded chap’s shopping took over.
“Oh dear,” I muttered to the bearded chap as the task became ever more difficult. He had the grace to smile but could not move his shopping back to allow me more room as his fellow basketeers had claimed the space by now.
I could feel several pairs of eyes boring into me and had to fight a sudden urge to laugh. The checkout lad displayed no such problem and continued to scan my mismatched items without so much as a smirk.
As the last items landed in my shopping bags which were now sitting, a little haphazardly, in the empty trolley, I prepared to pay.
As I pushed my bank card into the machine and punched in my pin, I smiled at the young lad serving,
“Now you are going to have to explain to all those people that I was sent here, and that’s why they’ve all been kept waiting,” I told him and you know what? He grinned.
If you were one of those people standing in the Sainsbury’s checkout this morning, with your bag of apples, sandwich and a bottle of milk or whatever else fits into a basket, I can only apologise but it wasn’t my fault – I was sent!
The checkout operator had paused to alert a supervisor of a problem with her till. The lady in front of me had just loaded her shopping onto the conveyor belt and the customer being served was waiting to pay, I presume.
It seems that having launched my debut Christmas novel on an unsuspecting world, sending it into the wide blue yonder – perhaps never to be seen again, I have been slow to rekindle the fire of the written word. It isn’t that I have not wanted to, nor that I have not tried. I have begun editing the final chapters of my next novel and it lies begging for attention.
I have read and enjoyed a couple of excellent novels and can feel the muse bubbling up inside me. Yet, housework, family demands and life in general, have thwarted any real progress these past few weeks. So, it was with a determined and hopeful heart that I began trawling through those gems I write down occasionally. You will know the sort: An idea, a snippet of overheard conversation…(the latter having already been discussed in ‘The Things People Say…”) all are things that can send the imagination into overdrive.
I found several exciting and interesting snippets as it happens. I found an entire post written on the differences between girls and boys, another about the proliferation of bad news in the media…I must have had a bee in my bonnet when I wrote that. (I said bee and not wasp which I covered in, “Follow that wasp,”) However, there is one snippet that really caught my imagination. I remember writing this, surely-too-good-to-forget gem, in note form, as we sat in the pub garden of the Old Ferry Inn, in Bodinnick, Cornwall, a year or so ago. It has languished, forgotten, on my computer’s hard drive ever since.
I shall give you this snippet of conversation just as I heard it but first, picture the scene if you will. The pub garden is built on several terraces, each terrace is accessed by a flight of stone steps and retained by a low stone wall. Each provides a lovely space in which to sit and take in the beautiful views of the river beyond.
A harassed dad has been sitting by the low wall, watching his two young sons play while mum relaxes round the corner, in the shade. As the baby makes yet another attempt to scale the wall, below which lies a steep drop to the stone steps, his dad grabs him and sends him back to his mother.
“I think it’s time to go,” he calls to his other son, we guess to be aged about four, although we cannot see him at this point.
As the father and younger child cross the terrace to where the mother sits, a small disembodied voice exclaims,
“Wow, that’s the nearest to death I have ever come in my life!”
The mind boggles! I may just use it…
I have jumped through hoops with the formatting, made some mistakes and learnt a lot. Here it is then, the paperback version of my debut novel (debut in the sense it is the first of my novels to be published) Once Upon a Christmas Eve.
Christmas is upon us and tomorrow I will be watching yet another nativity in which my two younger grandsons are starring. One is a King, the other a camel. I say starring because aren’t they all stars?
The first nativity I attended as a grandparent was quite eventful. Child number one was overcome with anxiety and stared out like a frightened rabbit from the makeshift stable where I think he was in the choir. His mouth barely moved during the singing. His cousin, on the other hand, sang with gusto and even had a few lines to say as he tramped through the land to reach Bethlehem. As child number one faltered and whimpered and had to be led from the stage, more confident child number two, led his shepherds to a resting place at the back of the stage. Delivering a faultless line to the watching parents, he then sat down, crossed legged only to miss the stage entirely and be upended so that the last we saw of him was his feet as he plummeted downwards. As we all gasped and wondered what might occur, he pulled himself back onto the stage and hung his head in shame, his bottom lip trembling. It was a little while before he recovered enough to rejoin the singing.
It was my newest granddaughter who stole the show though. She had arrived several weeks earlier than planned and was still tiny at two weeks old. My youngest daughter had wheeled her in and had sat at the back of the room. The headmistress, seeing an opportunity here, asked permission to take the little one to the front of the stage where she explained to all the children, that this is what what baby Jesus would have looked like. The baby’s elder brother, the one who had had to be taken off stage in tears, beamed with pride though could not be persuaded to get back onto the stage himself.
I can only imagine what might happen in tomorrow’s nativity but I am looking forward to it.
I have been talking about this for long enough it seems so, at long last, I have taken the bull by the horns and uploaded my manuscript to Amazon. I hope I have ironed out all the layout problems that could affect it. For better or worse, there it sits.
Once Upon a Christmas Eve The Kindle version is available for download now, the paperback version coming shortly. I am ready to tweak the file over the next few days if necessary but fingers crossed, it should be fine.
I am quite chuffed to have managed to upload it by the beginning of December.
Halloween and I have a strange relationship. All Hallow’s Eve falls on the day before my birthday. Last year, on a family get together in a Scottish faux castle, (the brochure had stretched the truth a little in declaring it an old Castle. It is a downsized replica of Warwick Castle, apparently,) my birthday was preceded by a big Halloween party. Who had the energy for another the following night?
Mind you, it was an excellent party though I say so myself.
My adult children had all surpassed themselves with their costumes/decorations and planning. Our grandchildren were only too happy to put on their costumes though the younger ones had little idea why they were dressed so outlandishly.
The suits of armour (the castle was decked out perfectly) provided hours of entertainment and lent themselves well to scary stories about headless Knights. When my eldest son donned one of the helmets, he frightened the life out of the three year olds. I was a little concerned as well – would he ever be able to get it off?
I am just pleased that I had the good sense to stay put and avoid being born on the 31st. I am so much better suited to All Saints Day!
Meanwhile, I have been working on my latest novel, Once Upon a Christmas Eve. It has been read, it has been edited and now I am having a cover designed by a professional designer (who happens to be my daughter). I can’t wait to start promoting it as an e-book. Well, why wait?
My book stretches the imagination every bit as much as Halloween. It is a tale of two families whose paths cross in a ghostly fashion, with disastrous results for both. Can a tragedy be undone? That is the question facing Beatrice as her life changes, perhaps for ever.
This one has beaten it to the finish line as other Works in Progress wait in the wings but they are not forgotten. In fact, the release of one will herald my release to work on the others.
This will be the first year in a long while, that I have not joined NaNoWriMo. My reasons are simple. Personal circumstances in November will not allow the dedication to writing that NaNoWriMo demands and deserves. Last year I re-wrote Once Upon a Christmas Eve, from start to finish and have been fine tuning it ever since. I can heartily recommend NaNoWriMo to anyone thinking of trying it. One gets 30 days in which to write 50,000 words but in reality, that 30 days dwindles to almost half when you factor in the unexpected and in my case, elderly mothers coming to stay or childcare responsibilities being thrust upon one. Sometimes, it is hard to find the time to commit words to paper or screen but it is worth it, believe me, if you can. I almost wish I could.
Next year, I may well take up the challenge again but for now, NaNoWriMo is a NoNo. As for the cover design and the ebook – I will keep you posted!
“What is that child doing?”
This was the question we asked ourselves as we prepared to eat our long-awaited meal.
The child in question was a girl of perhaps eight years of age. Prior to this point, she had been sitting with her large family, at the next table, chatting quite happily.
What happened next was most bizarre.
I should explain that Fowey was incredibly busy on Saturday night. We know one has to book a table if one wants to eat out in the holiday period. We had left it too late. Hence, at 7.30pm, we joined the other, “forgot-to-book” holidaymakers, shuffling along the busy streets in the vain hope of finding somewhere that could fit us in and serve us food. Everywhere we came to was full. Forlorn groups of hungry tourists dragged themselves from restaurant to restaurant. It was looking as though a take-away was our only option.
Our search ended at The Ship Inn. The place was packed. We edged up to the bar and waited to be served. The couple who had come in behind us, took matters into their own hands as we should have done, and nabbed the landlady as she was making her way across the room. They were given the last table in the bar. We waited.
The landlady asked someone to go and check in the other room to see if there was a table free in there. The barman returned saying there was a table right at the back of the room if we wanted it. There was an hour’s wait for food.
The rest of the small room was occupied by a large, rambunctious family. (Large in number that is) We were not overjoyed at the prospect of squeezing in but, needs must, as they say. In we trooped.
It was not ideal by any means. The small circular table sat flush with the window seat. Our chairs barely fitted between a deep leather sofa, piled high with cushions and coats and the table.
We gritted our teeth. I moved some of the cushions that threatened to suffocate us, to the window seat and slid the coats along to the far end, thus creating some space and some air behind us. A pair of child’s wellington boots resided under my chair. I retrieved them and placed them midway between our table and the next.
The large family chattered and laughed as families do. Presently, a German Shepherd joined them with his owners. The enormous dog lay down in the doorway, panting. Its owners divested themselves of their coats (why such big coats? It was neither cold nor raining) and walked towards us, stopping short of our table (were they intending to sit with us?) and throwing their coats onto the sofa behind us. We were now an official cloakroom it seemed.
It was not long before the child, the one who was now causing us such consternation, skipped over to retrieve her wellington boots before disappearing to the loo. She seemed full of energy. She made a noisy return and we continued to wait for food. We waited for over an hour. Lisa made a few trips to other establishments in hopes of finding a better deal, in the meantime but had no luck.
The family received their main course and began to tuck in. They had finished their meal by the time we spotted a waitress bearing three meals that must be destined for our table, should she manage to get through the throng.
Some of the family seemed to have left the table and were lounging against the far wall. The waitress stepped over or around the German Shepherd. It was at this point, that the slightly odd turned to bizarre.
The mother of the group steered her daughter towards the sofa behind us and helped her climb aboard. The sofa cushions were pressed against our chairs so there was no way she could walk in front of it without standing on our laps. (Nothing would have surprised us) The mother picked up a couple of coats … were they leaving?
No, the child, not a small child by any means, lay down and allowed her mother to throw the coats over her. The mother stroked the girl’s head. We felt a little uncomfortable to say the least. The waitress was waiting to put our meals down. The mother stepped back and allowed her to pass.
The meals were lovely it must be said but our appetite had gone with the fidgety child so close behind us. She shuffled and rolled and twisted and turned in an apparent effort to get comfortable. The mother returned to her table. The brother came across and perched on the arm of the sofa. He too began patting the girl and threw another coat on top of her. By now, she had wriggled down the length of the sofa so that her head was literally hanging off the edge and was between our chairs. I looked at Lisa, she looked at me. The child regarded us both with smug eyes.
Dave shrugged. We ate our food with the child lying there, watching. As we swallowed the last mouthful and prepared to leave, the family began pulling on their coats. The girl jumped up and ran across to them, apparently no longer tired and in need of immediate sleep.
We made sure we got to the bar to pay before they did. We needed to get out of here.
Out on the street, we breathed a sigh of relief. Incredulous at the rudeness of the family and only mildly amused by what had just transpired, we made our way down the road towards Treleigh.
“They’re behind us!” Lisa hissed.
Sure enough, the family and the child were following us.
We quickened our step. They seemed to be quickening theirs. Surely they were not going to invade our home? Lisa wondered whether the child would appear in her bed, like some ghoulish creature from a horror film.
It was unfair of us to liken the child to a ghoul. She was just precocious and possibly spoilt rotten, as my mother would say. I blame the mother. What possessed her to send her daughter to our table? I suspect she had earlier told the child she could lie on the sofa if she felt tired and our arrival had threatened to scupper those plans. The child had evidently decided to stake her claim. The family followed us all the way home but we were thankful to climb the steps to our house and hear them continue on their way to the car park.
As my grandmother was want to say, “There’s nowt so queer as folk.”
Other than that bizarre episode, we had a wonderful short break. Here are some photos to prove it!
My brother-in-law was a character indeed. When he left this world in November 2007, it became a poorer place without him.
A devout born again Christian, he preached the gospel and prayed every day. Even in his darkest moments, when death beckoned, he believed he would be saved. I sincerely hope he was.
His faith was strong but so was his sense of humour. He had learnt to laugh at himself because there really was no other way.
Anyone who is familiar with Frank Crawford’s Frank Spencer from, “Some mothers do ‘ave em,” can easily imagine what Stuart looked like. He was the image of a young Michael Crawford in his younger years, to the point where he was asked for his autograph when queuing for the theatre where, “The Phantom of the Opera” was being shown.
“Is it him? Is it?” those nearest whispered, before timidly offering their programmes up for an autograph.
(Had Stuart had a raincoat with him and a beret, he would have treated them to his infamous impression of, “Ooh, Betty,”)
Ironically, his character was actually closer to that of the fictional, Frank Spencer, with his good intentions and hilarious outcomes. My long suffering sister, took great delight in relating his tales of woe to us after a holiday or a good deed gone wrong had occurred.
It seems a shame not to bring those tales out now and then so, as both my sister and my brother-in-law have been in my thoughts this week, I thought I’d share a little of the beleaguered life of Stuart.
My sister reckoned he was an accident waiting to happen.
Always the first to lend a helping hand, he offered to help out some friends opening a new chemist shop, by painting the floor one evening. Unfortunately, the hapless Stuart painted himself into a corner and his only form of escape was to climb along the shelves that lined the walls, these tipping at an alarming 45 degrees as he went.
There was the time he decided to shorten a door to fit over the new carpet. He was more than pleased with his efforts, not being known for his DIY skills, and measured carefully before he re-hung the door. Unfortunately, he had sawn off an inch from the top. The door still didn’t shut but there was a handy ventilation slit at the top.
His trips abroad were no less eventful. On an overnight drive to Austria, my sister slept in the passenger seat, only to be woken by Stuart nudging her into semi-consciousness, saying,
“There’s another toll!”
“How much?” my sister asked, blinking tiredly.
“I don’t know, get out the largest note and ask how much it is, we need the change,” Stuart shrugged.
My sister wound down her window and waved the hundred franc note under the official’s nose,
“Combien?” she enquired.
“Out, out!” shouted the official.
Everything was searched, suitcases, car, my sister and husband…This was a customs point and she had just attempted to bribe the border guard. Thankfully, the officials soon waved them on. Obviously, these strange people were harmless English folk.
On yet another trip, while staying in an Austrian motel en route, Stuart decided to be helpful and strip the beds in the morning, against my sister’s loud protestations. Feeling extra helpful, he stepped out onto the landing and seeing a pile of dirty linen by the adjacent door, he placed the sheets on top, muttering that the maids were so busy, it would be good to help them a little.
On returning from their holiday, a fortnight later, they opted to stay at the same hotel. As they walked into the reception, the proprietress became rather agitated and greeted them with,
“Ah, Monsieur and Madam ‘Olliday, the last time you were ‘ere you took ze sheets!” in excited French.
My sister, whose French was a little rusty, struggled to interpret the woman’s excited accusation. It was not until much later, whilst soaking in a warm bath, that she realised what had actually been said,
“Stuart, they think we stole the sheets!” she gasped.
It took much explaining and gesticulation on her part, to let the woman know what had really happened. Like a scene from “Alo Alo” by all accounts, my sister endeavoured to explain,
“My ‘usband…mon mari…’e put, il met, le sheets, les courverts…outside la chambre à coucher,” she stammered.
I am not sure the woman believed them.
The list of Stuart’s mishaps lengthens.
There was the time Stuart brought home a very expensive suit on approval from Gieves & Hawks but wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not so he asked his friend and near neighbour, if he could walk up to his house in it for his opinion. It was slushy and icy outside and needless to say, Stuart slipped over on the ice and put a great hole in the knee of the trousers, returning home with blood pouring from the wound.
“Well, I’ll have to buy it now,” he grimaced, (and it cost another £100 to have it invisibly mended).
We were not immune to Stuart’s hilarious antics. Visiting my sister and her family one weekend, we were there when Stuart decided to cook a full English Breakfast. This was something he did not normally eat and which was regarded as a rare treat.
I should explain that he and his friend and neighbour, enjoyed a friendly rivalry where food and drink was concerned. The previous evening, Pete had appeared at the garden wall with a glass of a particularly fine wine. Stuart was not able to drink at the time.
Having dished up two breakfasts, one for my husband and one for himself, Stuart remarked that Pete would be so jealous, he must show him.
Picking up his plate, he crossed the kitchen and walked over to the fence, calling for Pete to come and see this amazing breakfast he had cooked.
As he raised the plate to show his neighbour, the family dog – an Old English Sheepdog, a larger version of Theo, leapt at him in excitement, eager to participate in whatever it was he was doing. The plate and the breakfast took seconds to hit the deck and it was a much chastened Stuart who returned to the table, empty handed.
When we had all picked ourselves up from the floor and wiped our eyes, Dave spluttered,
“Would you like to share mine?”
I could go on but I think I may have given you enough to gauge what sort of man Stuart was. I won’t go into detail about the time he disappeared Christmas morning to attend a Church Service, promising to be back to help Beverly in the kitchen by ten thirty. (She was cooking for a large family gathering). At eleven o’clock, Stuart burst into the house and demanded we find a fishing net. A child’s fishing rod and net, was found in the shed.
‘There’s a bird in the church and we need to catch it,” he called as he hurtled out of the house.
Beverly sighed and we all offered our services in the kitchen. Stuart returned at 1pm.
Dinner was served up at 1.30pm. Beverly had done us proud. The table looked amazing, Stuart emerged from the shower (bird catching is dirty work) and sat down to eat.
At the end of the meal, he stretched, sat back in his chair and announced,
“Well, Beverly, that was very…” we waited with baited breath. Surely he was about to compliment his wife for serving us such a feast despite his untimely absence…
“…disappointing,” he finished.
Ever heard a pin drop? You’d have been in with a chance at that moment. Had it been me, the gravy boat would have sailed across the table and landed on my brother-in-law’s head. No such outburst came from my sister. A look passed between them. That’s all.
Sometimes, a look is enough.
If we are to believe what we read (and the jury is still out on that one) chip & pin will soon have a whole new meaning. On the local news this week, it was reported that a man has had a chip inserted in his hand that allows him to open doors by waving his hand in front of a sensor, among other things.
I can only wonder what happens if the chip moves. I mean, the vet told me that the chip they put in dogs’ shoulders, often moves around the body and is hard to find when they come to scan it. The next time we see this young man, will he be standing on his head or presenting his foot or another part of his anatomy, to the sensor before the door will open? This could be very inconvenient.
Doubtless the powers that be, have thought of this and the chip will not move – but couldn’t it be subject to a new sort of infection? A new computer virus perhaps? Could a lift of one’s hand induce a totally unexpected outcome? Could it cause mayhem? The mind boggles at the thought.
Apparently, the scientists behind this innovation, do not share my fears. A Wisconsin company is to become the first in the US to microchip employees, according to reports.
Goodness, I have only just got used to Contactless bank cards!
Exciting stuff indeed, if you like that sort of thing. If you prefer to turn a key in the lock then maybe it is not for you…yet.
Apart from taking in local news, I have been busy doing nothing for the past few weeks it seems. A holiday in Portugal, where spirits were refreshed and the body rested, went all too quickly. A weekend of dog and child care while youngest daughter and husband headed off to Rome to attend a wedding, greeted our return. It was good see all the grandchildren again and here are three of them, bathed and ready for bed on a Sunday evening, as they wait for their parents to return and ferry them home.
Charlie refused to be nice to the children’s new puppy from Romania, aptly named Beryl, so he had to wear a muzzle for much of the time, much to his disgust. We hope they will become friends eventually.
Flossie makes everyone welcome of course…
I have walked the dogs, taken grandchildren to the park and resumed my general Grandma duties this week. The weather is changeable, the long hot summer in which we sweltered and said goodbye to quilts and flung open our windows in the hope of attracting the slightest of breezes, has fled for the moment.
Wickham Festival is here again and last night we could be seen traipsing through the fields in our wellies, our newly acquired camp chairs on our back, identity bracelets on our wrists (no chips here except the deep-fried variety) and as we walked, we slipped, slid and sank into a river of mud and straw. (Glastonbury is not on my list of places to visit). We set down our chairs (comfort essential) on an island of dry straw and for a moment, I had cause to wonder why I was here. KT Tunstall sang melodiously and with gusto, in the background. I had to admit, there was a certain charm as the sun went down…
Today, it is sunny and dry. The day is warmer. The hope is that the mud will dry out and festival goers will not risk life and limb as they wander around in the slippery clay. Come to think of it, there was enough of the latter to throw a few pots last night.
I am a fair weather festival fan, it has to be said. Still, we were there for the first evening and we are sure to be there again during the weekend. My companions are more hardy than I and I will doubtless be pulled along by their enthusiasm.
Here we are, Dave and I, me looking slightly crazed, towards the end of the night. Well, it had to be done!
Due to the lack of photographic evidence, I shall attempt to draw you a picture of the scene when I arrived home from Sainsbury’s with the weekly shop, this morning.
Picture, if you will, sitting amongst those, ‘bags for life,’on the table, 2 cool bags filled with goodies with which to restock the fridge.
First of all, I should say, I am quite aware that the fridge does not need a total restock – it is, after all, still quite full of the weekend’s yet-to-be-eaten bits and bobs. We are low on milk but the milk shelf is still full, containing the two 4 pint bottles of skimmed and semi-skimmed,that are almost empty. The two new ones will need to be put elsewhere for a while.
Now it is time for you to picture what I am wearing. Nothing startling – trousers, T shirt, over-blouse and my favourite pale pink, waterfall cardigan. Got that? Ok.
I reach up to put the large bottle of milk on the top shelf of the fridge where it normally fits, if laid on its side. I give it a slight shove and realise there is an obstacle behind it, stopping it from going all the way in. The obstacle is easily removed, a jar of “something” which I discard as being, “no longer needed.”
The milk now slides into place. Except, as it squeezes into the final inch of space, there is what I can only term, a domino effect amongst the other occupants of the top shelf. I hear a rumble and in slow motion, witness the tiny, unlidded jug of salad dressing (Balsamic vinegar and oil I presume) lose its place and upend itself with a crash.
It is a second or two before I realise what is happening…
On its way to horizontal, the jug ejects its contents as though from a jet sprayer. I feel liquid cascade onto my person, my hair, my pale pink waterfall cardigan, seeping through and splashing onto every item of clothing I am wearing. My face did not escape. I stand there, gaping for a moment. The fridge is covered, from top shelf to bottom in brown, strong smelling, balsamic. It is seeping down the walls, and flowing out of the fridge, across my floor like a brown sludge.
The dogs come to investigate but decide it really isn’t their sort of tasty treat and disappear.
I survey the damage. One arm of my cardigan is now brown and the rest of me must be similarly attired. I discard the cardigan.
The vinegar continues to drip.
I decide there is nothing for it but to go get Steven and see if he can assist. He does. Between us, we manage to empty the fridge and wash the drawers and the shelves and mop the floor. The smell is still strong but I deduce that is down to me. I am a walking salad dressing.
One hour later, I have showered (washed hair too) and changed and am left wondering how that mini disaster ever came to happen in the first place. Who put an uncapped jug on the top shelf of the fridge where I couldn’t see it?
There is some good news. Miraculously, the jug is not broken.
As I said, we didn’t take photographs (shame) but I hope you get the picture!