Misssy Enrages A Granny
I upset a granny yesterday. In a road rage incident.
The incident is bizarre for two reasons;
1. Road rage is always bloody stupid. People who get upset in their cars should not be allowed behind a wheel. It is ridiculous. Calm the hell down, everyone.
2. You just don’t expect 70+ ladies to be the ones who are raging. I always get a shock when I hear an old lady say the F word too; it’s not right or normal.
To illustrate my point, I am going to describe the rage incident in two ways; the first story will include the vehicles, and not just because I want to namecheck my new mini. In the second, I am going to remove the cars.
Stay with me, it’ll work.
Version One: In Cars
I am in the Tesco car park with the new mini, (wink).
Our local Tesco is being completely revamped, but of course, instead of closing it down while they triple it in size, it stays open to fleece the local community, give their workers tinnitus due to the incessant building noise, and confuse the hell out of everyone as they change both the shop and car park layout every week.
I have provided a crap drawing to illustrate the layout.
(Click on pic to enlarge, or if you’re using blogger, Bild anzeigen in einem Neuen Fenster)
Misssy is motoring along looking for a space. It is raining and she has just straightened her hair. Parking place proximity to shop is a concern, as she has not umbrella and has natural bedspring hair.
She spots a car space (Parking Space 1), and pulls in. But it’s a doubler!! Yay! So she moves forward into the other one (Parking Space 2) , so that she doesn’t have to reverse out. There’s still a wee distance to the shop but she’ll chance it. She has a hat just in case.
But what’s this? Another space much closer to the shop across the second carriageway?
“Beezer”, she thinks, “I’ll have that.”
So she pulls out of space 2 and motors along the carriageway which, fact fans, has ample room for cars going in both directions.
There is a red car coming from the opposite direction. Missy thinks nothing of it and as she stops she puts on her indicator to let everyone know she wants to pull into the space and let the oncoming lady go past.
The older lady does not go past.
Instead, she stops her car, window to window with Misssy. She then SCREAMS with rage at Misssy, and makes a gesture to indicate that this particular carriageway is ONE WAY.
Who knew? Does it matter, there is ample room. No danger is present.
Misssy smiles at the woman and show her surprise at this news, “Sorry!” she mouths, cheerfully, “I didn’t know”.
What happens next is bizarre. The woman doesn’t move on. Instead, she bellows a stream of abuse in the direction of Misssy. Her face is red, and then purple, with anger. As her window is not down, Misssy cannot hear exact words, but there’s a couple of “fuckings” in there . And a couple of “bitches” . Whew what a torrent!
Let’s repeat one fact. This woman is in her SEVENTIES. At least.
Then, satisfied that she has sufficiently spewed enough bile in the direction of Misssy, the angry lady carries on her way. Possibly to have a stroke.
Misssy pulls into the space and assumes the universal “What the fuck??“ facial expression.
* * * * * * * * *
Version 2: On foot
Okay, one way systems don’t exist for pedestrians. I know that. (They may do in Germany, they’re like that. Rules for everything, that lot.) Anyway, suspend your disbelief, please.
A woman is walking down a street and comes across an older woman coming from the opposite direction as she goes past.
“This is a One Way street, you are not supposed to walk this way!” the older lady bellows in the face of the younger woman.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know” explains the younger woman, smiling.
“You stupid fucking bitch,” the woman screams, her face red and then purple with anger, “What the fuck are you doing, you bloody idiot?!!! This is a ONE WAY! A ONE WAY, YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING???????!!! AAAARRRGGGGHHHH!”
The woman walks off.
The young woman assumes the universal “What the fuck??” facial expression.
* * * * * * * * *
So, I think we treat this as a public service post.
Lessons learned:
1. Don’t do road rage, it’s silly.
2. Don’t underestimate pensioners. They can be bloody vicious.
3. Smiling at road ragers is a laugh and really winds them up more (not my initial intention, but hey, what a result!)
Lessons not learned
1. Pay attention to signs in car parks
2. Don’t be so concerned about your hair that everything else takes second place.
Run Misssy Run!
Yesterday: Scenario One
08.57am: Misssy wakes up, looks at alarm clock. “Fuck!” is her first word of the day.
08.57 and 3 seconds am: Wakes sleeping Indy with the bad news, “We’re late, you’re going to be late for school! I’m sorry! Get dressed! No time for breakfast! Just put this on! I’m so sorry!”
Indy starts to cry. “Why did you sleep in? Evil Mrs S will give me a row”
08.59am: Misssy, whilst shoving still sleeping, weeping, breakfast-less, packed lunch-less Indy out the door, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry…Here’s some dinner money!”
Throws some coins in Indy’s direction.
09.00am: Wake Junior Misssy . Junior Misssy refuses any clothing Misssy chooses and fight ensues.
09.15am: Jnr is flung into Nursery wearing God knows what.
9.16am: Misssy rushes back to computer. Misssy has deadline today and her script has been passed to lovely L in the company she is working for to be proof read. Which is a good thing as regular readers of the Misssives will testify to typo filled prose.
09.30am: Misssy also has phone meeting with her project manager. It’s supposed to be at 9.15. Also still no sign of proof-read script for her to double check, accept millions of changes and have delivered in plenty of time to client that she is meeting at 1pm that day, giving him time to check over it and approve it before the day is out.
10.05am: Misssy has shower. No time to dry or straighten hair. Misssy looks like Alice Cooper, except not as good.
10.30am: Proof-reader emails “Sorry my computer crashed. Will get script to you ASAP. It’s a nightmare here”
11.30am: Run to get Jnr from nursery. Misssy forgets to bring money for Nursery trip tomorrow. Bugger.
11.45am: Script arrives but L has changed a lot of terms that the client wants left in. Misssy has to go through the lot and retype them. She also has to get Junior to sister’s 6 miles in the opposite direction of where she is due for her meeting at 1pm.
11.46am: Misssy stupidly thinks she can check over a 60 page script and email it all sorted to client before setting off at 12 noon.
11.59am: Misssy realises she has no hope of sorting any of this out and abandons project in favour of keeping appointment instead.
12.15pm: Misssy flings Jnr Misssy at sister barely stopping the car to do so.
12.17pm: Misssy remembers that the petrol light has been on since yesterday. She thinks she should be able to run on fumes the 16 miles to town. Before meeting will stop into get petrol. Prays to God for assistance in this.
12.50pm: Stuck in traffic at bottom of so called ringroad. See petrol station over the road. Realises she’ll have to get petrol after meeting. Will run on fumes to meeting. Prays to Vishnu for assistance in this.
1pm: Misssy is still on ring road. Why can’t anyone else but her drive properly?
1.15pm: Misssy arrives at client’s reception, sweating. Receptionist gives her message from Project Manager. Can Misssy phone her before going in? Results of call unimportant to story but Misssy is set back a further 3 mins.
1.18pm: Misssy has meeting. She nods a lot and pretends to understand algebra being spoken like it is English. She is in a constant state of thinly disguised panic. She must be out of meeting before 3. Client knows this but of course she is 20 minutes late so she doesn’t press the point.
3.05 pm: Misssy gets back to badly parked car. Indy is out of school in 10 minutes. He knows to come straight home as he has dentist appointment. But Misssy must get petrol. She decides she will get it on other side of town. She will run on fumes ‘til then. Prays to Ganesh for assistance in this.
3.30pm: Indy is now out of school and heading home to empty Misssyless house. “Mum is really fucking up today,” he thinks, except that boy would never swear.
Misssy is heading toward petrol station unaware that in her haste this morning she has left her purse on the hall stairs. She’ll just have to go on fumes back home 7 miles way. Prays to Buddha for assistance in this.
3.45pm: Grabs Indy from front garden barely stopping car. Hands him toothbrush (Yes, she remembers toothbrush but not purse. What is that about?). Phones Meeester illegally on mobile whilst driving. “Dentist 4.30pm, right?”
Apparently not. It’s at 4pm. No time to go to petrol station. Will get to town where dentist is (and where sister looking after Junior also is) 8 miles away on fumes. Prays to Jesus for assistance in this.
3.55pm. Dentist town visible on horizon. Car says, “Phut!” Lurch! “Phut!” Lurch. Misssy takes car out of gear and coasts hoping that no car in front will turn off necessitating her to brake and lose valuable momentum. Prays to Mohammed for assistance in this.
Indy is looking at Mum with absolute delight. He has stopped hating her for the morning’s trauma, and now worships her as a superhero.
3.57pm: Car dies on edge of town. Misssy prays to Father Son and Holy Ghost as she turns ignition and the car manages to locate molecule of fuel from somewhere and starts. She coasts into town, past lots of parked cars. Silver Audi waits ahead for her to pass so that he can then go past said cars in opposite direction. Car dies half way past parked cars. Audi bastard helpfully starts sounding horn. Misssy loses it:
“Yes, you utter bastard I’ve just stopped here because I fancied it. I’m stuck here because I thought it would be a bit of a laugh! Arggghghghghghghgh!”, she shouts.
Misssy prays to flipping L Ron Hubbard and his alien monster guys for assistance as she turns the ignition once more. L-Ron comes through and the car sputters into life. Audi bastard cheerfully sounds horn once more as Misssy goes lurching past, obviously to cheer her good fortune and not because he is a stupid ignorant fuck wit.
Indy runs out of car and shouts, “I’ll run to dentist. You get Jnr”. Bless him, he’s back on side.
End of day: Misssy and kids come home after Meeester M rescues them. Misssy flakes out on sofa and writes shite blog about her shite day. Nobody can be arsed reading about her shite day as they’ve troubles of their own. Misssy goes to bed exhausted, unread and on the verge of nervous collapse, just to do it all again tomorrow.
Yesterday: Scenario Two
8am: Meeester M says goodbye on way out. Misssy wakes, showers, gets kids up.
8.15am: Kids dress and eat breakfast.
8.45am: Misssy takes kids to school. It’s a beautiful day. “I love you, Mum,” says Indy as he waves her goodbye at the school gate.
9am: Misssy packs her things ready for her meeting. “Must remember to put petrol in car.”
9.15am: Misssy has phone meeting with Project Manager.
11.10am: Misssy collects Jnr from nursery and, smiling, delivers her to Auntie. Her hair looks great as she’s had plenty of time to style it. The sunlight catches her highlights as she heads back to her car.
11.45am: Misssy heads into town.
12.15am: Misssy stops off to buy petrol.
12.45pm: Misssy arrives at office and is given message to phone Project Manager
1pm: Misssy has meeting with client. Everything makes sense.
3pm: Misssy heads home
3.20pm: Misssy picks up Indy, checks on dental appointment time with husband.
4pm: Misssy successfully delivers children to dentist. Whilst chilling in waiting room she comes up with magic idea for a blog.
6pm: Kids out in garden. Meeester is cutting grass. Misssy writes amazing blog.
9pm: Blog is so great that word spreads of its brilliance and an unprecedented amount of people read it.
Week later: Misssy is asked to expand blog further in the form of a book by top publishing house.
Months later: Book sells millions
Next year: Misssy retires to South of France where she does nothing ever again for the rest of her life except drink cocktails, buy frocks and lounge about.
Which one do you think happened?
Horror-scopes or "Why Russell Grant is a Bastard"
You all know how much I want that cream and black Mini Cooper. If people haven’t read my blog, they still know all about it as I have told them at length just how much I want that Mini Cooper. I have commenced work on the freelance project that I hope will help towards the Mini Cooper. I have downloaded a photo of my dream car and blu-tacked it above the computer so that when I’m in the middle of said freelance job and feeling a bit stressed and tired I can raise my eyes and be reminded of why I am working so hard. Have I made it clear how much I want this car. I have been jealously and openly growling at owners of Mini Coopers. In short I want one!!! Please be in no doubt about that.
So imagine my horror when I read this week’s Grazia horoscope. Here it is, word for bloody word:
Capricorn
“Don’t be too quick to revive extravagant plans that have been on hold. You may think you have the right and the money to treat yourself generously, but not everyone will agree.
“Mercury is at odds with Saturn and Neptune, suggesting you must be able to account for every penny spent. Don’t play into the hands of your critics.”
Horoscopes are a load of crap, aren’t they?
Aren’t they?
Mini Me!
I don’t think I’m a materialistic type of person but the next few paragraphs are going to make me come off like one. A bit.
I’ve had my current car for about six years and yes, it’s looking a bit tatty. It’s been scraped (not by me, by someone who borrowed it- I am an EXCELLENT driver, be assured of that), it’s had the odd scratch from a malevolent teenager casually running something sharp along it as he/she passes by on a Friday night, it rarely gets washed and as for the inside..well frankly it’s slightly stinky.
It’s a SEAT, the poor man’s VW, and it’s served me well this last six years, needing next to no repairs. It’s not exactly done me any favours style wise though. In fact last year when I was on the yearly graduates night out, a group of my drunken students made disparaging remarks on my choice of car and wrote in the dirt on the side, “Cock Piss Partridge”. Which at least was a reference to quality television, so I consider my job done. They also got a bit carried away and started to rock the car as I tried to drive off. I’m taking all of the above as a “To Sir With Love” sign of affection, nothing else.
My friend Dave, who is what I believe is called, a “petrolhead”, helped me buy my car and did all the kicking of the tyres type stuff in the User Car Dealership when I bought the car. I hadn’t seen him for a while but when I saw him last his first comments were, “I can’t believe you’re still driving that car”. He then went on to comment how I he believed I hadn’t washed since I bought it. Cheeky.
But the state of my car is not my fault! For the last four years I’ve been ferrying Junior Misssymartin into her childminders. In that time she has coated the back seat in a mixture of baby-milk, sweeties, apple juice, vomit, pee, snot and tears. She has picked away at trimmings and drawn on the vinyl with a biro. She also once threw her new sandal out the window on a dual carriageway in rush hour, but that’s another story.
We’ve now changed childminders and Meeestermartin takes MisssyM jnr to the new poor soul’s house, as it’s on his way to work. The journey is thankfully short and his vehicle should sustain minimal damage.
So, at least now my car is now relatively tidy and the chances of me crashing whilst screaming at JuniorMisssy have decreased about 90%. It is now that MisssyM jnr is out of the picture that my thoughts turn to getting a new car. But I’m no longer prepared to make do.
I desperately want a cream and black Mini Cooper. I have always wanted one. I look at other cars on the road and they just all look the same. The mini stands out; it looks beautiful. It says, “I drive a work of art. I drive a design masterpiece. I drive a British icon”. I want a piece of that action.
I know that I could get a reliable car for around 5K. But I WANT a Mini Cooper. I’m 38 for godsake! Can’t I have what I want? Haven’t I worked for 18 years now? Haven’t I driven a mingheap for six years? I’ve been a good girl all year and I want rewarded. In the words of my second favourite Smith’s song “so please please, please let me get what I want, this time…”
I have been checking out Minis on the road for the past six months and I notice that a great deal of the drivers are silly little twenty something girlies. Why have they got a Mini Cooper and I haven’t? I go all brattish when I think about it. I WANT ONE! I DESERVE ONE! They don’t! I am now openly snarling at them, “Get out of my car, blondie! Let a real woman drive!”
So I have decided, all the freelance work I do from now on goes into the Mini fund. And guess what? I just got a contract for twelve weeks of scripting work! The Gods are smiling upon me, it’s written in the stars! The mini will be mine, oh yes, it will be mine.
Oh and if anyone’s interested, Much loved R reg Seat Cordoba for sale…… will need valeting.
It has to be yoooouuuuu!
My Existential Hell
Of course no-one told me this, and I ripped my house apart anyway and successfully found the certificates for 2002-2003, 2003-2004, 2004-2005 and 2005-2006. The certificate for 2006-2007 must be in the vortex with my car keys, every biro I’ve ever owned, marriage certificate, mobile phone and driver’s licence. I even missed the last episode of “Shameless” because I was upstairs peeling back the wallpaper like Gene Hackman in “The Conversation” looking for the elusive bug ‘cept I was looking for my insurance cert and he wasn’t inventing new swear words like I was.
After all that, I began to doubt I actually was insured. Had I made that call in May? Had I been driving illegally for the past 8 months? So a quick call to the Institutional Embezellers they call Direct Line confirmed that not only was my insurance intact, but since everything is computerised now all I had to do was pay for my tax online and my MOT and insurance would be automatically checked. A couple of clicks, a brief moment of anxiety until the credit card was accepted, and voila! I would be issued with my new disc in a couple of days.Hallelujah! The DVLA finally makes it into the 21st Century! No more going to the local Post Office with all your documents to be told that they don’t do tax discs in that post office and you’ll have to go to one in town to get it. No more going into town to stand in a mammoth queue in the St Nicholas Centre Post Office for 40 minutes at the end of which an unsmiling (yet smug) apparatchik tells you that you haven’t brought the right documents and they can’t give you a disc no matter how much you plead. No more returning to your car to peel off a penalty notice that you have secured due to the fact that your tax is now overdue. Road tax has up until this point been mainly a Kafkaesque experience, except not as nearly good fun.
However, unlike Josef K (or maybe just like Josef K- if you subscribe to the theory that the Kafka hero is responsible for his own downfall, by his mere existence …) this is all my own fault as I notorious for losing everything. Everything, that is, that is really important. I don’t know where my birth certificate is for example. It’s probably in Afghanistan being used to facilitate illegal passports for the Taliban, for all I know. I can only apologise to anyone that bears the brunt of any terrorist acts that result from my absent mindedness. Mea Culpa. See you in Guantanamo. I’ll be the one trying to accessorize my orange jumpsuit.
It was a relief to me on the birth of my first born, King Louis, that I didn’t leave him in a car park or sitting in his Rock-A Tot carry seat on top of my car roof as I drove along, oblivious. As the MOST important thing in my life from the point of 10.32pm on 3rd May 1998, it was surely only a matter of time before I mislaid him. But you’ll be relieved to know he’s lolling about in front of the TV as I write, at the ripe old age of 8, giving me monosyllabic answers to any question I might deign to ask him.
To date, I may have shouted some angry things at both my kids but you can be sure I’ve never tempted Fate with the phrase, “Get lost!!!”. Far too risky.
My Existential Hell
Of course no-one told me this, and I ripped my house apart anyway and successfully found the certificates for 2002-2003, 2003-2004, 2004-2005 and 2005-2006. The certificate for 2006-2007 must be in the vortex with my car keys, every biro I’ve ever owned, marriage certificate, mobile phone and driver’s licence. I even missed the last episode of “Shameless” because I was upstairs peeling back the wallpaper like Gene Hackman in “The Conversation” looking for the elusive bug ‘cept I was looking for my insurance cert and he wasn’t inventing new swear words like I was.
After all that, I began to doubt I actually was insured. Had I made that call in May? Had I been driving illegally for the past 8 months? So a quick call to the Institutional Embezellers they call Direct Line confirmed that not only was my insurance intact, but since everything is computerised now all I had to do was pay for my tax online and my MOT and insurance would be automatically checked. A couple of clicks, a brief moment of anxiety until the credit card was accepted, and voila! I would be issued with my new disc in a couple of days.Hallelujah! The DVLA finally makes it into the 21st Century! No more going to the local Post Office with all your documents to be told that they don’t do tax discs in that post office and you’ll have to go to one in town to get it. No more going into town to stand in a mammoth queue in the St Nicholas Centre Post Office for 40 minutes at the end of which an unsmiling (yet smug) apparatchik tells you that you haven’t brought the right documents and they can’t give you a disc no matter how much you plead. No more returning to your car to peel off a penalty notice that you have secured due to the fact that your tax is now overdue. Road tax has up until this point been mainly a Kafkaesque experience, except not as nearly good fun.
However, unlike Josef K (or maybe just like Josef K- if you subscribe to the theory that the Kafka hero is responsible for his own downfall, by his mere existence …) this is all my own fault as I notorious for losing everything. Everything, that is, that is really important. I don’t know where my birth certificate is for example. It’s probably in Afghanistan being used to facilitate illegal passports for the Taliban, for all I know. I can only apologise to anyone that bears the brunt of any terrorist acts that result from my absent mindedness. Mea Culpa. See you in Guantanamo. I’ll be the one trying to accessorize my orange jumpsuit.
It was a relief to me on the birth of my first born, King Louis, that I didn’t leave him in a car park or sitting in his Rock-A Tot carry seat on top of my car roof as I drove along, oblivious. As the MOST important thing in my life from the point of 10.32pm on 3rd May 1998, it was surely only a matter of time before I mislaid him. But you’ll be relieved to know he’s lolling about in front of the TV as I write, at the ripe old age of 8, giving me monosyllabic answers to any question I might deign to ask him.
To date, I may have shouted some angry things at both my kids but you can be sure I’ve never tempted Fate with the phrase, “Get lost!!!”. Far too risky.
