Last Saturday morning was all very confusing. The sign outside a huge Asda store nestling in the groin of Leicester shouted out ‘Open 24 Hours’ and although my eyes were barely focussing, I’d spotted the basic untruth. It was shut and the doors refused to slide open whatever I waved in front of them, so I checked my watch. At 6.58 am, I was starting to panic. I’d had the genius idea of shopping for provisions after completing an early morning dash to deliver ‘Last Minute Alphonse’ onto the first train to Bristol for the annual Hi-Fi Show. He’d been gifted with explicit instructions to ‘buy nothing or else’ and assured me he was only on a fact-finding mission. This is akin to Bear Grylls being dropped into the Great African Rift Valley for an awayday. He would automatically seek out something to jump off whereas Alphonse would need to be dragged away from his favourite German speakers, so blissed-out by the purity of sound that he might just ignore the almighty price tag of £60K. I was invited to attend Bristol to ensure no large cheques were handed over but I have an aversion to the place which stretches back to March 1999.
IT Project Management had been a newly chosen career for me. I was keen enough to impress my boss with my knowledge of telecommunications and the mobile phone industry and daft enough to swot for a month in advance of the supplier meeting. Little did I know that these excursions were an excuse for an almighty piss up. To be precise, the supplier of the first part [BT] would be required to pay the bar bill of the customer [us] which gave our hardened IT Management carte blanche to drink themselves into oblivion, which they did at the San Carlo restaurant and the hotel bar afterwards.
We had been booked into one of the Marriott Hotels i.e. the most expensive on offer and my reasoning for staying sober was the gorgeousness of my room, the roll-top bath on a raised plinth befitting a movie star and a bath robe you could dive into. I also realised the meeting and corporate presentation the following morning was in the alternative Marriott, over a mile walk through the city centre.
It was a struggle but I made it to the marble-lined pool area and downstairs gym at 7.00 am independent of the only other survivor of the previous night’s excesses,the IT Manager of the Distribution Fleet and one very dark Raven indeed. We were made for each other then but, stupidly, neither of us would admit it and so 'the rest is history' part didn't happen. After breakfast, the previous night's carnage was obvious. None of the others could walk straight and most got taxis. I lost count of the litres of mineral water drunk around the table that morning and observed that no-one paid any attention to the corporate deals on offer except me. It was Budget Day too and on the way home, I keeled over on the back seat of a BMW 328i with Radio 4 ringing in my ears. Luckily I wasn’t driving, particularly as I couldn’t account for the Walls Solero stains all down the front of my pale grey suit. I daren’t look in the mirror either in case my vital life signs were absent. These days, I avoid the Leicester branch of the San Carlo just in case it unleashes a tide of Bristol-related nostalgia.
With no life coming from inside the superstore I used the ATM, turning around to make sure there was no-one behind me to steal my pin number. In reality, there was no-one awake within a half-mile radius of me and the only object of interest nearby was the enormous phallus of the National Space Centre rising into the sky through the dripping mist. The last time I was there, they had a TARDIS but it’s vanished apparently. And just as I considered heading to Tesco, I heard banging coming from behind me. Urgent and insistent, the security guard was knocking on the window and shouting ‘oi!’ to attract my attention. He mouthed something and believing I was deaf as well as dense, he shouted through the glass.
“Seven! We’re open at seven. I’m getting my keys.”
And true to his word, I was in the warm at 7.03 precisely and outnumbered 10:1 by incredibly cheerful staff. As the sole customer you’d think I’d do the whole 26 aisles in ten minutes then head home wouldn’t you? There was no way I was going to pass on such exemplary customer service which out-greeted the staff of John Lewis. I progressed slowly through each department, hauling into my trolley all the kit needed to give our jaded bathroom a ‘Death in Paradise’ vibe with watermelon coloured towels and a vibrant, retina-destroying shower curtain. I ambled through the Home section heaping scented candles and knick-knacks onto the pile. My hand trembled as I approached the pot pourri and later as I delicately arranged it in the bowl with the precision of an Australian bowerbird, I could hear Alphonse’s voice echoing from Christmas when I bought a pack of Frankincense-scented nuts and dried fruit from M&S.
“You HATE poo-pourri.” Honestly, anyone would think it contained toe-nail clippings.
“No. What I hate are ten year old bowls of dust and crap masquerading as pot pourri.” And plastic flowers, but that’s another story. “But this is new stuff.”
Besides I was having fun. I never have time these days to stop and stare, to go swimming at dawn or to spend an hour over breakfast and I was determined to make the most of this small, meaningless task.
After half an hour I stopped being ‘the crazy lady’ and stepped up to ‘valued customer’ when I was overtaken by a bloke in Leicester City-themed jammies. It was zero degrees outside and -4 in the freezer section yet this chap was wearing flip-flops. Heading through the wine section for a second pass, I picked up some joyously cheap Sicilian white which sparkled as it went down with my fishcakes much later. I even saved some for Alphonse who is pining for the return of Inspector Montalbano. As the store started to fill up and customer numbers reached double figures, I took my cue and gatecrashed the checkouts, having spent triple the amount I’d normally hand over and barely any of it was real food. It was 8.00 am.
Tip of the Beak: At 8.00 am this morning as I walked from the Retail Cathedral to the hairdressers, I heard the unmistakable sound of a Bentley approaching along the pedestrian-only route into the City Centre. This acuity of hearing takes practice and I’ve had lots in this lifetime. The car was black with immaculate coachwork; it even sounded black. It had a cream leather interior which you could just glimpse through the tinted windows and as it pulled alongside me, the driver’s window slid silently open and out came a manicured hand complete with awesome wristwatch. The dude held a remote control device. He pressed it once and the shutters of the classiest jewellery store in the city started to rise. The rollers weren’t silent but I was speechless; my jaw was hanging open. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen and I vowed to be up early in future to experience more of the same.
Raven
