Wishful thinking

 

The New Year dawns and my wish are for more things to go right than wrong in 2024.

So good bye to miserable, tension filled days. Welcome to doing nice things, fantasy things, like those Facebook posts which report that so is at the Pier Head.  Or so and so is in Thirsk, having a beer.  And they get a 100 likes and lots of fawning comments.

Or so and so is in the Bahamas – again. I admit to being envious.

Are they lying?

I don’t think so. I think they are “blessed”.

"Wish you were here" by Pink Floyd. 

We’re not blessed. We be carers and worn out with worry for our room-bound patient.

And, like our dear daughter, we be house-bound - for years now - as a consequence, like so many thousands of others.

Better days will see us all getting out there. I'm all for wishful thinking.

I think we'll take Eurostar to Paris, just for starters.

Official at check in: Sorry sir, the Chunnel is flooded, no services. There are thousands of frustrated customers here, their holidays ruined.

What? I don’t give a toss. I do not wish to hear this.

Let me speak to the driver.

Hi, there, can you get on to control; tell them who I am... We wish to get to Paris, my family and myself.

The driver calls control, gives them my name.

Control says: If he’s the train spotter who used to stand at Wigan North Western in the 1960s.  My dad knew him. Good man. Good to go the Paris. Never mind the flood. It’s only a few inches, drop the speed to 50.

Driver.  Turning to us   Hop in. Your wish is my command.

Zoom…300kph and Paris in two and half hours, taking a little longer due to the flood in the Chunnel.

 

No need for the snorkels.

At the Gare du Nord, we lunch nearby at Restaurant  ‘Poo Poo’,  across the road..

What next? Oh, yes. What do you on a day trip to Paris with so little time to take it all in?

You go to the one place which will confirm you were there and no where else.

We take a cab to the Eiffel Tower, go the top 1000 feet up, and admire the view in the setting sun. Then cab to the Gare du Nord and our Eurostar which is still not running – they say.

“Pardon, Mons,” says platform official.

“Etes-vous observateur de trains du Nord Western de Wigan?”

Qui. I say.

“Allez. Bon route.”

We are waved forward by our driver. Off we go, back to St Pancras.

A dream trip.

And now how to deal with daily Hell of the self-service checkout at my supermarket.

These newly introduced machines are meant to ease the pain of shopping, but they don’t because they are likely to misread most of the goods scanned.

Shop with own Bag? The screen says.

Place bag in position, orders the screen.

You scan in the first item.

Place your purchase in the bag, it says.

I do so.

At the third item the machine fails to register it in the bag and tells you to put the fucking thing in the bag.  I have done so, I say, but it takes no notice.

Instead on screen message appears in red “Assistant coming”.

Except they take a whole minute or more which is too long.

The assistant presses keys, juggles this, that, the machine relents.

I am able to proceed to the next  item, number 4 of 15 and if its bad day the machine will four more times stop and query  something or other, taking a dislike to the bread, or the tomatoes, or whatever, the colour  of my coat: and each time it calls for the assistant.

This is happening all down the line to other customers, all now quietly seething.
I seethe, but noisily.

WILL YOU GET RID OFTHIS HEAP OF JUNK!!!

I know now how to take charge of the situation. I take my cue from Richard, the big Aussie ex-firefighter who decades ago did a spell at Cycling Weekly designing page layouts on screen.

Whenever there was glitch and the page froze he would exclaim loudly with Aussie expressions.  Then to my delight, remonstrate with the machine by smacking the computer with the flat of his hand. This direct action would elicit a cry from the editor’s office where Andy would call out. “OH, no…, that’s a few thousand pounds worth of kit”!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, at the first sign of trouble with the checkout shit heap I smack it hard. Shoppers turn their heads in my direction.

You bastard, I call out, raising my voice.

It doesn’t always work. But satisfaction is guaranteed.

GET RID OF THEM,  I tell the assistant and managers who come running.

Next day, we have a splendid take away frozen meal from COOK. We have Beef Stroganoff – or as Sid, mishearing the waitress, once said: “Strong enough for what, dear?”

And from the wine cellar all good Face bookers have, a bottle of Chateau Nuff Du Wot. Or was it Blue Nun?

The following day we’re in Bournemouth, watching the heaving seas as waves crash onto the beach.

Then to the silence and grandeur of the Scottish Highlands, oh, the majesty of those peaks.

Off to Stockholm, to wander about the old town – Gamla Stan.

There is a parachute jump at Biggin Hill.

Risky.

We go Nordic Walking with sticks over our local Surrey Hills – always a good workout.

Finish with a coffee in Mullins down the road, named in honour of its long gone owner, identified on the Blue Plaque on the wall outside: “This is the house of William Mullins,, a Pilgrim Father who sailed to America on board the Mayflower in 1620. “

Wishing you all the best.