So, about 11ish on Sunday, I trundled off the the local supermarket for the 'big' shop. You know, the one you do that costs a bomb because you need to replace the shampoo and conditioner and those little sweet smelling plug in thingies then the hair dye's on special and you really need an extra couple of laksa bowls because you dropped two on Thursday and smashed them to smitherines and three of your fingers, then you're out of Lavender oil and toilet paper. Oh and don't forget the Sharwoods Mango Chutney which also took a dive from the top shelf of the fridge before splattering it's gorgeous gooeyness all over your 'just washed' slate floor yesterday . . I'm still picking up shards of glass . . .anyway . . suffice to say, a big restock was required unless my family want to live on tomato paste and tuna for the next week.
So, armed with greeny bags and a wallet full of cash, I do the shoppy thing, pay dutifully at the checkout. Chat to the pretty kid doing the scanning, named Kylee (where do they get the spelling) and wishing that the Paduan was with me so he could chat her up before steering the unsteerable jam-packed trolley back to my car. Parked with all the other cars in a massive car park and next to a little black Suzuki Swift.
Now normally, I'd put all 3,000 shopping bags in the boot but because 'he who landscapes' in his wisdom has chocked my boot (trunk) full of brown paper that should have gone on last month's bonfire, I had to wiggle between two vehicles, position the trolley and then put my bags in the back seat.
In manouvering the unmanouverable, I 'tipped', 'kissed', 'brushed against' the bumper bar of a little Suzuki Swift, its young driver, just sitting there on her mobile phone didn't bat an eyelid so I gave the bumper a lightening glance, no apparent damage, positioned myself between the trolley and her car and continued to unload by hoiking heavy bags over the top of the trolley and into the back seat. At about the last two bags, little Miss Havachat gets off her phone and stomps out of her car. She's knee-high to a grasshopper and hopping mad with a petulance that only a teenager can muster and clearly no knowledge of the insurance claim process but begins to mouth off anyway . . .
"Excuse me! You just bumped my car with your trolley."
"Yes I did. I'm sorry about that, they're hard to control on this slope but no damage done." Conversation over! . . Or so I thought, "Well I'd like your contact details please so that my Dad can have a look and see if you've done any damage!"
At this point, I'm putting the last bag in the car and I shut the door. I move the trolley from between the two cars to the back of mine. "Actually, there's no scratch . . nothing . . just a bit of dirt on your mudguard."
Not satisfied, she continued "Well how do you know, you didn't even look. I felt you bump my car, I was sitting in it at the time, you just kept loading your shopping into the car and would have just driven away, without leaving a note or anything please could I have your details and I'll get my dad to check" Oh she's a clairvoyant, I thought! . . "I know . . because I'm looking at your mudgard, where my trolley bumped and there's no scratch see?"
I assured her that I had glanced to see if there was any damage, had buffered my very buffery arse between the trolley and her car to avoid any further bumps and that once I had completed putting my shopping in the car I would have had another look before returning the trolley. I also assured her that had any significant damage been sustained I've have left a note on her windscreen!
Little madam kept on, "I still want your details just to make sure there's no damage."
What? Had I bent her chassis with a microbump? Knocked her wheels out of alignment? Punctured her petrol tank? Dinged her duco? By now I'm getting that 'fuck off you little dipshit I hate shopping and just wanna get out of here hot flush'. And wishing to hell that I had my camera with me because normally I would. I'd have photographed her little ass and put it all over the internet!
"Look 'Honey'! (nothing like patronising a young person by calling them a luvvy name). Had I done any damage, I would gladly give you my details but since there is none (ascertained after rubbing the offending area with my clean sleeve to reveal a nice shiny finish under the DIRT) . . why should I? What's to stop you claiming that I made that scratch on the door, or that one on your back bumper bar and you hitting me for the damage bill . . nope, I didn't come down with the last shower and I'm not happy giving you my details! Okay pet? (two patronising euphamisms in one sentence - brilliant!"
"I wouldn't do that," objected the poppet with doughy blue eyes, "I'm an honest person . ."
"Well so you might be sweetness and light, so be honest about the absolute lack of damage on your car by using your own eyes. Since there is NO damage caused by my trolley, I'm not giving you my details . . take my licence plate number if you want . . "
"Well I will then!" said the uppity Miss.
So I left little mite writing down my licence plate number while I put the trolley back. I resisted the desire to ask if she's so fucking blind that she can't see there's no damage, what's she doing driving in the first place!
As I drove away, I thought of my Paduan and how that could so have turned out to be a romantic encounter if I was a 21 year old single boy busting for a girlfriend. I could have made it such a positive experience!
Then my horoscope this morning said this:
"Although you might prefer to keep the peace by saying nothing, today someone could goad you into talking about a delicate matter that stirs deep feelings. From a practical point of view, it might be smarter to keep quiet, but an unfair presentation of the facts demands that you chime in with what you know. Just keep in mind that diplomacy is still a wise strategy and that you don't need to say everything all at once."I hate it when my horoscope is righ but I think I managed to keep a few secrets despite the trolley folly.