It has been a lovely sunny day where I live, in the north bit of England (we haven’t got many bits, so we tend to hold onto the bits we do have).
I went to the supermarket – my usual haunt, when I have nowhere particular to go – Morrisons. I didn’t actually use the store for a change, but I did take an old pair of jeans, thinking I could toss them in the clothes recycling bins they have there. I’m incapable of leaving the house with absolutely no end in mind. If I lived somewhere picturesque, then, sure, I’d go for walks just for the hell of it. As it stands if I want to go for a walk, I choose a shop, or decide I need a copy of the paper, or a lottery ticket. Off the point, there. Back to it:
Morrisons. The bins for clothes, large, angular metal contraptions, rather aggressive, in primary colours, side by side, rusted and intimidating. The mechanism for depositing old clothes is rather like the drop box at the bank, where you can deposit a cheque in an envelope. You pull a lever, the mouth gapes open, you put your money in, mouth snaps shut.
Here it is:
“CLOTHES!” it yells. “Give me clothes. NOW!”
“Okay, okay, you want clothes. I shall give you clothes and appease your anger.” Anxiously, I stoop forwards to get a closer look at the mechanism for feeding this monster. I am surprised to see this warning:
Seriously? You’re seriously worried that I might think it’d be great fun (on this lovely, sunny day) to try to clamber into the jaws of this appalling metal monster. Do you think I’m mad? (Don’t answer that).
Perhaps I’m being too hasty. After all, people have their fun in all sorts of ways, and if inserting oneself into the bag drop is, like, the new huffing glue, then I stand corrected. Even a helpful phone number there in case a hapless young adventurer gets themselves in a bit of a pickle.
It’s good that they ram the point home, with this sticker. How cool. You can look at it from any angle and the perimeter of the sticker will always read “WARNING!” Genius.
“Climbing into this bank can cause injury.”
Interesting. Don’t do it, kids. Don’t climb into the bank because it can cause injury. That’s a good reason. Also, I might add: climbing into this bank would be futile, ridiculous, like trying to post yourself through a letterbox. For what gain? Maybe there’s a nice pair of really old cast-off trousers that possibly might fit you, if only you could actually see in the dark cavernous stomach of the bin you’ve dropped yourself into.
So, that was my day. I don’t usually take my camera out with me, but I happened to today, and this made me smile, so I couldn’t resist snapping it. My jeans are safely inside and you’ll be pleased to know I heeded the warning not to jump on in after them.
Just me babbling from here on
I’ve been okay today, but bored. Last night I didn’t want to do anything except stay home with a ready meal, a drink and a copy of Reveal, so I turned down the offer of a drink with my friend. Today, despite sleeping really badly, I have felt oddly bored. Perhaps the knowledge (gained from over-texting and Facebook peering) that a lot of people were either excited about sport matches going on today, or having bbq’s, or sat in beer gardens, made me feel like I wanted to join in with these frolics. It’s probably just a case of wanting something because it’s not immediately available to me.
The path I chose today was one of languorous submission. I can’t stand watching football so meeting anyone (i.e. male friends or family) who would be doing that, would have been so wildly out of character that it would have resulted in enforced psychiatric admission or a declaration that I must be suffering sun-stroke, with a dire warning “no more sun-provoked activities, for you, young lady”. I couldn’t be bothered with that, so I lounged about on my own. Until I decided to go to the supermarket, and dodgily take snap-shots of their recycling equipment (wonder what people thought of that?)