It is safe to say that Shopmobility was not exactly flooded with customers this morning. Though the potential for flooding of the Watery Kind was quite high, given the torrential rain whipping through the car park.
The Really Rather Wonderful Adrian, who is in charge of All Things Shopmobility, tells me he is extremely grateful that I have turned up so early; given the weather he is inclined to think it best to shut up shop well
before the scheduled close of business. We agree that the chances of anyone turning up to hire a mobility scooter today is slim indeed. Unless they are in the habit of braving the elements, no matter what, when M&S has a "Dine in for £10" offer.
I am here to return the wheelchair I hired for our theatre trip which didn't exactly go to plan (see yesterday's blog.) Adrian tells me, regretfully, that he can't refund my money; I reassure him that I wasn't expecting
him to. We are, as usual, At One. Adrian likes me, I can tell. He recognises my voice every time I call out to be let in, sharp-ish, through the automatic door. That door may be automatic from the inside, but it isn't from the outside as far as I can tell.
"It's Mrs Ball!" he cries, as if I'm someone very important. Like the Mayor, perhaps. But without the robes and the chain of office.
Adrian braves the rain to help rescue the wheelchair from the boot of my
car. It is a particularly roomy and comfortable one (the wheelchair, that is, not the boot of my car, don't be silly, whoever heard of a comfortable boot?), purchased especially with Mr B in mind, which just goes to show that it's good to have contacts. On
the way back into the office, I admire the new sign above the Shopmobility premises. It cost £600, Adrian tells me. He will need to hire out an awful lot of scooters and wheelchairs to pay that bill. I put my £1 parking fee in his collection box
and wish it were more.
On my way home I call in at the shops to buy a slice of belly pork (for Mr B) and three chipolata sausages (for me.) My apologies to everyone who couldn't care less what we will be eating
tonight, but some of my dear readers, inexplicably, relish the detail. Almost as much as Mr B will enjoy his slice of belly pork, providing, that is, I serve up crunchy crackling. It's quite a challenge but I am (mostly) Up For It.
Passing the Samaritans charity shop, I spy a decorated plate in the "Everything For 10p" box. The inscription on the plate reads: "The caterpillar thought the world was over until he turned into a butterfly." Last of the Big Spenders,
I can't resist buying it for The Twinkles, even though a small voice in my head is warning me that their mother, Middle of the Darling Daughters, may well ask, albeit kindly, what on Earth she is expected to do with it. The sweet woman behind the counter tells
me about her twin grandchildren who will be two years old in May. We have a good chat, as is my habit on such occasions, about grandchildren, of the twin or the single variety. She doesn't expect to add to her current tally of six but I tell her never, say
never. Speaking from the experience, you understand.
I arrive home bedraggled as a drowned rat. Mr B suggests I sit down with him to watch a recording of last night's Celebrity Apprentice USA, starring one
Donald Trump before he became Leader of the Free World and stopped telling people "You're fired!" Oh, well, rewind on that one.
Old habits die hard.