There is a genius BBC series called “One Foot In the Grave”. The Hero: newly retired, a little lost and continually having to deal with idiots – had a catch phrase: “I don’t belieeeeve it”. If you have never seen this series, I beg you to seek it out – it’s genius. Funny and a little sad too. Anyhow, I realised this week, that I have become Victor Meldrew.
And here’s why:
Scented candles in glass containers that burn halfway down and then form a little well around the wick – which won’t stay alight anymore because it keeps drowning in molten wax.
So you dig around, trying to figure it out – only to make it worse. So much for the 50-burning hours promised on the box. I guess this is built-in-obsolescence at it’s most irritating. Don’t blame us if the wick falls out of your industry. I’m buying those cheapy dinner party ones from now on and spritzing the air with my perfume.
People who deliberately walk out in front of your car, when you are travelling at 40-miles an hour.
Giving you that: “And, what are you going to do about it?” stare – as you scrape your face off the airbag. What I am going to do about it is hoot loudly and repeatedly in your stupid eardrum, you idiot. And know, that one day soon, someone won’t stop. Who’ll be crying then?
Broadcasters that change episode times/lengths without alerting the faithful
I lost out on the final half-hour of the forever-finale of my favourite soapie because of this and there were NO repeats. Just rude and inconsiderate. DSTV, you could have put a little tag at the end of one of the previous episodes to alert me. Now I will never know what Itumaleng said to Marang after Maxine came back from the dead and stabbed him on his wedding day.
Women in flat sandals who drag their feet ‘schlapp schalapp schlapp’ as they walk through the shopping centre.
What is up with that – can’t you hear how annoying you sound? You have five toes – pick-up your damn feet or wear shoes. I am going to schlapp one of you, one of these days.
Fruit and veg that are rotten inside – and you’ve only just bought them.
So you pack it all up and schlep back to the supermarket with mangy mangos and putrid peaches only to have an assistant say: “Did you buy that here? Can I see your receipt?” No, I didn’t buy it here. What I did was rummage in a bunch of dustbins until I could put a package of vrot fruit together, then I jumped in my car and raced over to see if I could wing it and score a freebie.
People who sit on the sofa in my favourite coffee shop, reading mags: and never, ever order a coffee.
Or worse – bring their own … I kid you not. The guy had a flask of homemade. And, to add insult to injury – he used the free milk and sugar provided by Seattle Coffee Company. When I said to him: “You have got to be kidding me”, he moved his head from side to side and hissed: “This is a public space, I can do what I like”. The coffee went to work and presently he had to go to the bathroom: ‘please, keep my space’, he asks me. “Oh, suuure”: I reply. And promptly gave up the sofa to a couple of fierce-looking gay gals. Hah … do what you like with that, sucker.
And lastly – seeing that fixing the self is the first step in fixing the world:
My inability to put my house keys somewhere I can always find them.
Have I got some psychological issue around this? I am driving myself insane. Answers on a postcard please.
(Images courtesy of BBC and DSTV – found in the public domain.)