Letter From The Other Side.  From Cynthia.

When All Else Fails. 

It was when I decided to put my purchases through the self serve check-out at the supermarket that I had the first inkling my day was not going to be a time full of smooth flowing pleasure.

Things began to go haywire when the 2litre container of orange juice flew out of my hands and propelled itself into the machine with a crash. The woman on duty for this area put an abrupt end to a conversation she had been having  and came running toward us.

The container lid flew off and the contents burst like a fountain that had suddenly come to life after a long dry spell. It was most spectacular and quite amazing to witness how far and wide two litres of orange juice could spread. It of course included me, Teddy and the man who was using the machine beside us with a splatter of orange juice. The pale orange liquid flowed down the front of the machine and across the floor. Our groceries waiting to be checked out were pelted and the ones which had already been checked out were spotted.

My embarrassment grew as I became aware of people staring, a few unfeeling souls even had the gall to laugh at my predicament and no doubt just dying to get home and tell everyone what they had seen. Concerned supermarket staff descended on our position with buckets and mops like a group of vampires that have smelled warm blood.  

‘At least we were in the right store to have plenty of cleaning products.’ I quipped. My stab at levity fell on their ears with as much affect as the wet sponges they were holding had on the juice which by now seemed to be congealing a little around the edges. 

People wheeling trolleys went through the mess without seeing it but became aware fairly soon as the wheels of their carts began to make the unmistakably slick, sticky sound of grit being picked up from the floor. It increased the further they travelled and began to produce traffic lines on the cleaned tiles.

When I looked at the total on the machine’s screen I saw it had retaliated to my assault by charging me three times for the citrus juice which since it had now spread across quite a large area of the store I felt was rather unwarranted. I wasn’t about to get my money’s worth by licking it up.

The bombardment of our machine seemed to affect the one the man beside us was using and his it went on strike in sympathy and refused his card.

He was livid and began trying to get some help from somewhere. Most of the staff was too busy trying to clean up our troubles before more people entered the store and spread the orange glue further a-field throughout the aisles.

The unhappy gentleman to our left feeling neglected by the preoccupied staff threw his bag of groceries in a basket and purposely wheeled it to the middle of the orange pool and strode out of the store squelching footprints all the way outside through the glass doors.

 It was a cold morning and I’m sure some of the steam I thought I saw issuing from his nostrils was as a result of his heightened blood pressure.

To be fair he could have turned round and blamed me so I hope he was more successful with his shopping somewhere else.

The floor was cleaned sooner than our clothes. We left the staff wiping down the checkout area and tried to make ourselves as insignificant as possible as we left but wafting quite a pleasant marmalade smell behind. We endeavoured as we travelled home in a stunned and silent condition not to spread our orange dressings onto the car seats.

At home, still flustered and upset we had to undress and remove all our gluey top clothes and put them in the wash. Our shoes were cleaned and the soles washed because everywhere we walked there was that tell-tale sluuuurpy gluey noise that sticky shoe soles make on vinyl flooring. It was even essential to have small spots wiped from the lenses of our specs.

Before we could put the groceries away into the cupboards every item received the obligatory wipe to stop the gummy spots from attracting ants or mice.

Eventually we subsided into our chairs and enjoyed a restorative cup of tea.

After a while, I thought of ‘Open Writing’ and feeling very guilty I hadn’t sent in an article for a week or so I sat in front of my friendly home computer to write, hoping in some way to put the ghastly morning’s accident in some sort of perspective and trying to see it in the way some of those that were giggling at us in the store would have viewed it. It was going to be hard work!

After waiting for the computer to fire up I pressed my Word files and looked for my writing. 

Now, my essays, poems, pod casts and letters do not remotely hold the splendour of content, thrill of story line or memorable insight of Tolstoy. It is however my writing and some of it, just a little, has won me the odd prize and been published and has been appreciated by a few. It is my little interest and hobby and something I enjoy even when no one wants to read it. On viewing the blank page my heart lurched and I felt positively ill. A decade of writing files should have been looking at me. They were not there.

It was a white shimmering blank zero.

Two hours of frustration, tears, indigestion tablets and a scream of help to Teddy my resident computer guru and husband and they were found in a place within the mysterious bowels of my machine I didn’t even know existed. 

I knew it was a bad day the moment the dog jump up to wake me by sticking his nose in my ear after I had had a sleepless night and was at last enjoying one of the three hours I had managed to grab.

Better luck to you all with the machines you meet this week.

Cynthia.

 

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