So this morning, I dropped Damien off on time for his lift to school.
da Bruvva was already at work so I didn’t have to pick him up.
I am usually at work by about 06h50 anyway, so being extra early this morning, I thought I’d stop for a coffee at one of the many petrol stations I pass on the way to work. There’s a garage with a Woolies Foodshop so I thought I’d stop there and maybe grab a sandwich or a salad for lunch as well.
As I pull into the garage, my phone rings. It’s Thandi- the maid who is working for me this week. When she arrived yesterday we went to the supermarket for cleaning stuff and coffee and milk and bread (as there’s nothing edible in my flat anymore) but we forgot to get sugar, poor thing. And as I’m telling her I’ll make a plan for sugar and steel-wool I am switching off the car and getting out at the Woolworths, wallet in hand and cellphone at my ear.
I get out of the car, tuck my wallet under my arm, lean into the car slightly again, and drop my handbag on the floor under the driver seat where it usually goes.
And shut the door.
Poor Thandi thought I was yelling at her!
My car keys (and my spare car keys which I carry with me for just such situations), my handbag, my laptop… all locked securely inside my car.
I hang up on Thandi, and my head and shoulders drop in embarrassed frustration.
Picture a chubbier shaggy when there’re no Scooby Snax.
Oh how I HATE being a stereotype.
I picked myself up after checking that both doors and the boot were indeed locked, and went inside the shop. I got myself a coffee and a peanut butter cookie, and had half of both before I phoned a colleague. I asked him please to find me a locksmith as I had no laptop “access” and my cellphone had exactly one battery bar left on it.
It was when I hung up on him that I realised my plastic and cardboard coffee cup was leaking and I had drops of coffee down the front of my green shirt. Why oh why did I not just wear all black today!!?! I curse under my breath and get a serviette from the kiosk to wrap around my cup.
As I wait for my colleague to get back to me I call my Glugs to tell him what I’ve done, and I send Damien a text to tell him what I did- because I know he’ll get a kick out of it!
LAWWWWD how I miss twittering now!!!
My colleague texts me a list of locksmiths and I start calling them. The first one I get through to says: “Oh dear. Okay, repeat after me… ‘I am…’” I know exactly what he’s going to say and I tell him I refuse to say anything. It’s bad enough that I had to call him in the first place. He then apologises that he can’t make it, and gives me another number. No answer on his referral, so I call the next one on my list. They’re not a locksmith per sé, but they had my number (caller-ID) and would get someone to call me.
Bunnies… I have never wished to be a man… but I did this morning, ever so briefly.
So my cellphone battery is now teetering on the knife-edge of the beep-beep warning signal and total cellular oblivion. I have no internet access anywhere and I still haven’t gotten a locksmith.
And the garage is busier than usual with the morning rush for cigarettes and sandwiches and the attendants can’t help me anyway!
I pray that no one else will call whilst I am waiting and kill my phone- or make me be rude and hang up on them- and a couple of minutes later I get the call from the second referral. He’s fairly close and he’ll come straight through. I warn him my cell’s battery is dying and that he must please not dismiss me if he can’t get hold of me.
Then I realised he’s going to be negotiating some of the worst traffic in the province to get to me!!!
~~imitate a Scooby-Snax-less Shaggy again~~
It is now 07h00.
I went and got another coffee.
This time I remembered to wrap a serviette around it this time (my shirt was dry by then).
By now I have been to the car a few times to make absolutely and totally sure that it is indeed locked up tight.
I would love to sit down- but my car is dirty, and the only other seats available belong to a fast food place that’s not open yet, so the chairs are locked away.
I parked myself on the cage that has the gas cylinders in it and prayed it would hold me…
I finish my second cup of coffee and stroll up and down a little, so as not to look like a complete spazz.
I sit on the cage.
I stroll into the shop and check out the magazines.
I sit on the cage.
It is now 08h00… and I desperately need a wee!!!
I just KNOW that the dude is going to arrive whilst I’m in the loo- I just KNOW it. That’s how this day has progressed.
I try and stick it out, but I can’t wait anymore and go and ask for the keys to the ladies (‘coz you know they lock them for fear lurking cleaning ladies).
I dash into the loo, lock the door, wiggling around from foot to foot. I turn to face the single toilet (which actually had a seat and a lid), and realise THERE’S NO TOILET PAPER!!! But then, why would there be? I shoulda known there wouldn’t be any!
But I am desperate, I have no choice. I hover over the seat (‘coz you know there’s no friggin way I’m touching it), waiting a bit- thighs quivering- to attempt to “drip dry” and then yank my knickers up.
So far so good.
I squirt a little soap in my hands, open the tap, wash my hands and reach for the dryer…
And my phone rings. My hands are wet and my phone’s ringing.
It’s the locksmith- he’s here and wants to know if I am!
Of course he’s here.
I knew he’d get here when I was on the lav.
I almost yelled that I’d be right there.
As I come around the corner he’s standing behind my car (I had told him what I was driving) and I smile and say “Go ahead, I just have to give the keys back.”
It’s maybe a 10m walk to the cashier and back again and my car is open. I grab my handbag and ask him what I owe him.
“R350.” He says.
I try not to say anything and tell him I’m going to draw the cash I’ll be right back.
It’s now 08h15.
Perhaps I should have gone home before this day could get even worse!!!?!
Oohh, and guess what I was thinking about whilst awaiting the key man and laughing at the people around me?
Thassaright bunnies- I was so mentally blogging it!!!
There Is Never An Excuse
One in three is not a statistic - one in three is a crying shame.