Wrong way!

I took a minor detour and sent myself on an errand to Ikea on my journey between Bases 2b and 2a this morning. I have visited this store on a number of occasions in the 16 or so years since it opened. It's situated on a large retail park that is also home to a Marks and Spencer, Next, Boots, etc, so I visit the retail park itself fairly regularly even if I'm not inflicting myself with Scandanavian confusion; surrounding myself with stuff that is named in a similar fashion to the bits that kept falling off the Mir space station.

Anyway, I got lost. I got lost going to IKEA. Didn't have a fucking clue where I was and managed to divert myself so ended up at the wrong end of the park. Dick.

So, that got me annoyed. People who know me will testify that I get grumpy when I'm confused, I get even grumpier if I'm confused with myself. I went into the blue and yellow building, to the downstairs bit where, following a previous trip where I'd walked the entire first floor of the store before I found them on the ground floor, I knew picture frames and things were. I then realised that I'd need a trolly, but couldn't figure out how to get to them to get hold of one. More confusion, blood pressure rising.... but I eventually got one and picked up the frame.

Onwards! I was on an errand to find a throw (like for over a sofa that you don't like the colour of) and carried on around the ground floor, following the arrows on the floor, while looking out for what I was after. You see those arrows are great; they guide you around the store so you don't miss anything, but because everybody is going in the same direction, the flow is nice and steady. Nice and steady until you realise that you've got to the checkouts and haven't seen what you're after. You have to turn around and make your way back to the very beginning to take the travellator to the first floor. You have to do this while working against the flow of what seems to be the entire population of the North West and their children and prams.

At the top of the travellator, you and your trolley are thrown off pretty unceremoniously, yet some fucking smug retiree numpty is stood on the landing point, looking around obliviously while whistling and fiddling with something particularly fascinating in the pocket of their beige slacks (beige socks, beige slip-ons too, no doubt). Having regained composure after near death "by the power of grey-skull", you have a look to see where you're going. The floor plan isn't really that useful, but it seems that the best way round to where you might want to be is against the flow of the on-rushing Scouse-Manc hybrid mutants that frequent the store.

Coat hangers £1.24 for an 8 pack? BARGAIN! Get 4 of those.

You get to where you think you need to be, having negotiated a number of abandoned trolleys and abandoned screaming children. Welcome to bedding and textiles. It's really difficult to concentrate on the task in hand when you overhear the conversations of people who are admiring the most vile things with far too much enthusiasm and volume... in a Scouse accent and a speech impediment. But, you soldier on and eventually find what you need and make your escape, following the arrows and uttering loud noises of disapproval at anybody who dares to be going in the wrong direction.

Downstairs, and you pick up a second picture frame and some more hangers - just in case - before following yet more arrows on the convoluted journey to the tills.

Jesus, what an ordeal! I was absolutely exhausted and emotionally drained having spent 40minutes in the vicinity of some complete fucking idiots and their stupid, spazzy kids. I decided to "nip into" Marks's to pick up some bits from the food hall.

Marks and Spencer's food hall is brilliant, but the layout is impossible to understand. You don't just buy chicken goujons there, you buy mini-fillets from East Anglian corn-fed, organic, Christian, singing chickens. As such, you pay a fucking fortune for them. You pay a fortune for the sweet red, yellow, and orange peppers - ideal for salads, but not just salads; salads with the finest 20 year old balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil, cold-pressed by virgins wearing virginal white dresses, straight from their confirmation. Anyway, for a load of old crap that's going to be fried to death in the presence of overpowering Mexican fajita spices, I'm not sure it's worth the extra cost, but I couldn't face Tesco or, even worse, Asda!

Talking of Tesco and Asda, this 24hr opening lark is getting a bit out of hand. More and more people are doing their shopping in the evenings and I can't say as I blame them. It's nice to go shopping when it's only grown ups there who get things in their trolleys without any fussing from their whinging parastic shitbag kids. Unfortunately, people with whinging parasitic shitbag kids have also started going shopping in the evenings. Can't they be banned? Can nobody impose a curfew on these annoying fuckers? I'm sure Tesco would do a roaring trade if it started a "No under14s after 8pm" rule. Don't people with kids ever think that normal people might want to be able to do stuff without being exposed to them and their noise, whining, oversized buggies and snot? Selfish cunts.

It's in the evenings that the supermarkets try to stock up too, so the aisles are jam packed with cages of produce as the harrassed and underpayed staff try to ensure the availability of all us selfish bastards who won't leave our shopping till the weekend.

When I was in my local Tesco the other night, I noticed a smallish woman, probably about my age. She had a trolley full to overflowing with shopping, which she was pulling along behind by its front edge. We made eye contact and she must've mistaken my look of contempt for one of compassion and she smiled at me as if to say "These things certainly aren't easy to manoeuvre!". No, but try pushing the fucking thing instead of towing it, you stupid FUCKTARD!


More anger!
Trump doesn't allow me to shout at other motorists, no matter how crap they are. For example, behind a car at a roundabout yesterday. Car sets off, I follow. Without applying its brakes, the car in front inexplicably reduces speed to 5mph as both of us are trying to avoid being hit by another oncoming car. I get shouted at for driving too close. This happens all the time; the car in front will set off from some light and start to turn a corner and will then just slow down without warning. I get shouted at for driving too close. And when I shout at the other motorists, I get told off again. I'm not rating my chances of getting a roof-top rocket launcher for my birthday. Motoring isn't what it used to be.

Before my Ikea ordeal, I'd filled up with petol. I was exiting the petrol station, turning left onto a one-way dual carriageway. I'd stopped to have a look for oncoming traffic and, as I was stopped, a boy of about 13 or 14 on a bike crossed my path from the left - as he did so, he was shouting at me and sticking the Vs up. I wound the window down and shouted back, told him to "come back here so I can rip your fucking head off, you little shit!". He rode off. I've still absolutely no idea what his problem was, other than he should've been terminated at 6 weeks' gestation. Little shit.

Should I go into teaching?