Sweaty Betty

The breaking news that I've bought a bike has meant several things; I've had to clear out the shed, buy some lycra cycling pants, a bell and a crash helmet, and have the piss gently taken by Grimy who's been a seasoned biker since his youth.  So far, Alphonse has said nothing.  Anyway, it all started when Them Next Door had been out on the tandem and passed by a 'For Sale - £25' notice attached to a vintage Raleigh shopper bike.  I'd been moaning about getting fit for ages and this seemed like the bargain of the century to Ian, who is a whizz with a set of spanners. Texts were exchanged and I nipped round in the car.  It was all going so well until we tried to fold the bike up small enough to get it into the boot of my 106 and, shame faced, had to ask for help from the 90 year old vendor.  It was the hottest day of the year so far, so it's no surprise I've called my new wheels (Sweaty) Betty.

Some people are natural bikers, mainly because their parents buy a small trike, then a bigger machine to get the kids to school, and then in adulthood there's a natural progression to a proper bike for fitness.  This didn't happen in my case owing to my big brother's casual approach to cornering and generally falling off, and our Mum's desire to have at least one chick mature to old age.  So I caught the bus to school and the day I turned 17, I applied for a driving licence.  Thus, the need for decent headgear drove me out of the Nest to one of the city's premier bike shops at the edge of Leicester's student quarter.

Unhappily, all thoughts of safety disappeared as I walked past a 'once-worn' clothing emporium called Revival.  I saw all the colours and bags and shoes and was in there like a shot, rooting around the rails for something magenta to go with my new shoes.  It's like a drug, this place, and utterly addictive.  An hour later, I'd found a perfect skirt and the right coloured top which turned out to be too big so will be recycled to a charity shop.  But I was now running late for work who would be calling soon to find out if I'd gone missing, so I legged it to the cycle shop burning off lots of calories.

Don't know if you've seen the VW advert with the parachute salesman?  Where the chap decides to buy the cheaper parachute because it comes with a free clock radio?  The chap in the bike shop took one look at me and after listening to my queries regarding safety, showed me the basic helmet saying,
"It only comes in grey."
"Oh good.  It matches my work uniform."  Ignoring my sarcasm, he assisted me in the fitting.
"And it has a light at the back."
"I won't be pedalling at night."  I won't be pedalling much in the day either but still, safety first.
"The next one up is very popular with the ladies."  Immediately, I could see why even if he couldn't.  It was white with silver flashes and fit properly which the grey one didn't.  I popped it on my head and smiled, except that he hadn't finished passing on his expertise.
"It doesn't fit like that."  He proceeded to tip it forward onto my forehead and then patted it down hard so it rested above my eyebrows.  "Much better," he quipped "you've got to protect your head not your vanity."  Brilliant.  I wondered which one Betty would prefer and settled for the white one of course, and handed over my credit card.  I daren't look on the internet to see how much I could have saved online because I thought of the VW advert again.  As Ian said as he wrestled to get Betty's handlebars on straight, "Don't buy cheap headgear because you only get one skull!"

Tip of the Beak:  And it only takes one relatively small change to completely ruin a shopping experience.  One of my favourite time-wasting venues is Wilko.  It has so much stuff I'll never need but where else do you get bargain cleaning products?  Certainly not the Pound Shops.  Oh no, it has to be the proper stuff and as I needed a refill of sunflower seeds for our new squirrel-proof bird feeder, I had to pop into the branch in town.  Wilko!  What have you done? They've reconfigured the queuing system to resemble the check-in area at JFK ... one long endless queue and if you've only got one bag of nuts, you still have to wait behind the vast legions of pensioners in front who are buying for the whole street with no option to nip sideways to the 'cash only' tills.  Please Wilko, put it back as it was and restore the ambiance and joy to shopping.  I won't come back until you do.

Raven

The Toilet Vanishes

After a week away from work, I landed back at my desk a whole 15 minutes late for the start of the shift.  Beak down, I'd shuffled out of the house and into the car hoping a cunning excuse would pop into my mind to explain my tardiness.  Nope, nothing happened in my hay-fever stricken brain.  Simply, I had been refused an extra week's leave and didn't want to be wrenched away from tending to my mange-tout and tomato plants.  Tuning in to the general atmosphere, the hospital felt like another country.  Everyone was talking in hushed tones, cupboards were being cleared out and down at the end of our corridor, the engineers were fitting a combination lock to a door which hadn't been opened for years "for an inspection tomorrow, " they told me.  I had no idea who would want to inspect the old Daycare Christmas tree but it was keeping the three of them occupied.

My PC was on go-slow too.  I stared at the list of 150 irrelevant emails and spotted a couple of nuggets amongst the detritus.  The first was an edict from the Andrex Puppy saying I must complete my Health & Safety training module on line before tomorrow's inspection.  These are orders and anyone failing to comply will be spoken to, thus explaining why every available PC in the place was occupied by a pale, perspiring colleague who didn't have any of the answers.  I finished my module in under the 30 minute record and ploughed on with the second priority task of ordering my new uniform, the deadline having passed while I was on holiday.

Our stores department had sample uniforms to try and when I asked for a set to fit my Raven's shape, they declined.  My old uniform is a UK size 12, with a bit of give in the middle for a jacket potato or bag of chips if the mood takes me so I thought it would be a good idea to order the same again.  The chunky lad who runs stores gave me a stern look.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you."
"I'm the same size as the day I started here."  He had the decency not to look me up and down before answering.
"Maybe ... but the new uniforms aren't."
"So can I try a size fourteen then?"
"No.  We haven't got any of them.  Will size six do?"
"Don't be silly ... my arm's bigger than a size six."  I had seen the minuscule jacket modelled by another Ward Clerk, and she'd needed oxygen after her breathing became restricted trying to get it off.  I had started to feel nostalgic for the days when a Marks & Spencer size 12 standard garment could be picked up and bought, without trying it on, secure in the knowledge that it would fit perfectly.  Although I exclude bras due to their tendency to have built-in jiggle room.  Chunky was searching his cupboard for something suitable for me to try and waved a bag in my direction.
"Have you seen the dress?"  Yes I had and wouldn't be having one owing to its overall density of fabric and when worn, I felt I could bend light around my body.  I'm sure it had been engineered to give an air of reliability and solidness, but on my frame it also shouted 'butch'.

After another hour wasted as I searched out the appropriate sizes to try from other departments, I returned to the office where I'd started, only to find a keycode lock on the door and no sign of an engineer to give me the code.  I couldn't ring them because my phone was behind a locked door so trouped up to their office only to be met with a wall of silence.  I felt an explanation would help.
"I need to get my lunch and my handbag and get to the Ward before I'm late."  My bleating had no effect whatsoever.
"Should have thought about that before you left the office unsecured."
"I did think about it but had to order my uniform."  With the speed of a melting glacier, he wrote our code on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
"You can't tell anyone else this number."
"Not even the other four secretaries who work there when I'm not in?"
"No.  They'll have to come and get it too."
"And the twenty or so consultants who nip in throughout the week ... can they have the code?"
"No.  That wouldn't be secure, would it?"  I was going to be a very long seven days for me, I could feel it in my water.

The whole palaver of running around after other people meant I had no time to enjoy my sweaty sandwiches or tasty slab of banana loaf as I didn't know the keycode to open the staff fridge either.  And when I finally arrived on the Ward for part two of my shift, I was overtaken by the necessity for a comfort stop and headed for the usual door marked 'Ladies".  Except there was nothing in the room that had once been our primping area; they'd taken the basin, the bins, and the gits had even removed the toilet leaving a hole in the floor.  I've used Italian ski toilets before but they were just a hole carved in the ice over a gully, allowing skiers to do the necessary whilst on the piste.  This was something else.  The departing Ward Clerk patted me on the back and pointed me towards the locker room.
"You'll have to use the nurses' toilets from now on."
"Great but in three years I've never been given the keycode or a locker in there so what do I do?"
"I can't tell you because of the inspection tomorrow."  I could tell she was enjoying this except I wasn't going to be fobbed so easily.
"I'll have to go downstairs then ... which will make you late again and you'll get another telling off."  You know, it's surprising what unlocks doors in the face of abject stupidity.

Tip of the Beak:  I slept really well that night, despite the extreme humidity, because I was secure in the knowledge that I'd been secured out of my own job.  I'll be carrying a portaloo from now on.

Raven