Cashola
Some things are going to happen in the next few paragraphs that will make me sound like an old lady. I will utter the words, “What’s the world coming to…” in all seriousness, I will show a considerable amount of dottledness and I will have a big wad of cash in my purse ready to be stolen off me by youths. By the end of the day I will be writing to my local councillor, accosting strangers in the street and probably purchasing a tartan skirt and brogues in an independently run local shop.
This past month I’ve been trying to live off actual cash rather than using any kind of card. As an experiment really. I guessed that if I had to hand over cold hard cash for stuff then I would think more carefully about the stuff I bought and as a result buy less shite.
In addition to this, like any woman, I have been driving around with the petrol light on for two days now. I have done this before and had a really bad day as a result.
You’d think I would learn, but no. Partly because I am driving a new car and the petrol light is somewhere different and I may not have noticed it. So two days is probably a conservative estimate.
I am making my way in to town for a 10.30 meeting when I remember that I have absolutely no petrol and double back to my village to pay an obscene amount for petrol at village prices. I arrive and there are hand-written signs on each of the pumps declaring that there is: “No Petrol”. The local petrol station is run by our local councillor, a man representing my party of choice. Against my better judgement I voted for him (going for party rather than individual, duh). I have long had doubts at his abilities and I mutter something about, “If he can’t get it together to make sure he has his business organised, then…blablalalaablah” as I drive off sweating about making it to the next station five miles away.
Happily, five miles on, my wee Mini darling is managing fine. But both she and I know we are running on petrol mist.
When I reach the supermarket petrol station I hop out the car to be confronted by a machine that takes only chip-and-pin cards. I have £120 in my purse ready to be stolen by a gang of youths. But money is no use here. I swear a bit for I know my journey ends here.
I spot an old bloke in a high viz jacket cleaning one of the pumps and run over in the ridiculous hope that this seventy year old gadge can, with a single hand-swoop, change the entire policy of Adsa and accept my actual paper money.
“All I can do is apologise” he says, “It’s been like this for months.”
And that’s when I say it. I have possibly been infected by his airborne old gadge pheromones as I utter the phrase,
“I dunno. What is the world coming to?”
I say it like I’m talking about world poverty or gang crime. I’m like a Daily Mail columnist.
My elderly friend concurs, eager to accept an unexpected opportunity to moan about something.
“I know,” he shrugs.
He is probably about to launch into a diatribe of everything that is wrong with modern society but I’m off, like demented banshee.
Before my brain has time to engage and maybe work out if I can make it to the BP garage run by actual humans round the corner, I am approaching a 40 odd (not unattractive) man filling up his own car by means of a credit card.
Let’s now look at this from his point of view: A woman is approaching him waving twenty quid. She is asking him to fill up her car for her in exchange for said monies. He is frantically running his mind over the 100 emails he has been forwarded from colleagues about scams involving long haired sirens waving fake twenties in petrol stations. What does he know? He deleted the lot without even reading them.
He searches his memory banks for details of seemingly normal ladies coshing people over the head after they have watched them key in their pin number, nicking the card and flying down to Rio by way of it. He pictures her clinking champagne glasses with a thin moustached gangster in First Class, and laughing at him.
The poor chap has no time to register and process any of it. The woman is forcing money into his hand and is practically leading him over by the scruff to her car, whilst talking about the world going to the dogs and how embarrassing this all is.
Once calmed down and dispensing petrol, he starts to think that maybe this is, in fact, a come-on. She is manically chatting to him. Is she filling emabarassing dead air or is she up to something else?
He thinks, “What do I do, what do I do? Think back to those films with Robin Asquith that you watched when your parents weren’t around when you were a kid. What did he do when a woman came up to him in a supermarket? What happened in between the meeting and the banging the woman in the car round the back? Arrghhh! Oh, I’m not that keen….I’m scared. Is she a con artist or a nymphomaniac? I’ve never been accosted before. What do I do?”
And before he can work out if she’s after his savings or his family jewels, he has keyed in his 4 digit number, is standing with a twenty in his hand and the mental woman is away with a quick “toot toot” by way of thanks.
The card goes back in my purse tonight.
