Happy Losar To You, as they say in Tibet. It’s New Year and I’m calm now the birthday festivities are over for 2017. When I booked a week’s annual leave, I had the glorious idea of a whole week of sloth-dom hoping to recover from everything Winter has thrown in my direction. By Monday, a big crimp had appeared in the plan as I summoned the enthusiasm to visit the Retail Cathedral. It was a struggle but I needed a baby-related gift for my old boss LouLou, who is expecting her first visit from the stork. To complicate matters further, she doesn’t know the sex of her impending bundle of joy.
“What?!” scalded one nurse “You have no theme for the nursery?”
LouLou glowed with inner serenity. "My baby doesn't need a ‘theme' she replied and floated off.
I was miffed as I’d already had one failed attempt at securing LouLou’s present on Ashby Market. There’s a dedicated smallholder who sells throws and blankets of etherial softness, and she had a gorgeous cot set which wasn’t quite the bargain it appeared. I tried to explain my reasons for not snapping it up.
“It’s brown and cream.” There was a giraffe on it too but even in the 21st century it felt far too male. Personally, I feel giraffes are a wonder of nature but the baby clothes market mainly do them in yellow or taupe. Undecided on a gift for any gender, I couldn’t leave without buying something. Marie-Celeste had secured two fabulous throws and as we needed an extra one for upstairs, I selected a super-soft double throw with extra snuggle only to find out later it won’t stay on the bed. Every morning, it sulks like an enormous pile of mango sorbet by the bedroom door and is so slippery that Alphonse can’t wrangle it back into shape. It seems to be slithering all by itself into Room 101.
With hindsight, I wish I’d bought the giraffe set and saved myself another trip out. These days gender neutral gifting is common for babies and after drooling over the Beatrix Potter selection in Boots, I selected a full body suit with a little bonnet covered in bunnies. Result! Next, the cuddly toy. Except Next didn’t have what I wanted, so I headed for one of those Occasions shops with candles, cards and gifts where they occasionally they do customer service. I said “Hi!” to the two hatchet-faced biddies guarding the front entrance. They didn’t reply but just looked at each other and sniggered. It being Winter, and me being very quick on the up-take, I smiled.
“Ah … it’s my Princess Leia earmuffs, isn’t it?” They’re very jovial and warm. I bought them keep out musak in lifts and the unwanted noise from hand driers in the Ladies loo, but I can hear speech perfectly well, thank you. I inherited my spectacular hearing from Dad’s side of the family, a bonus to life really as Mum went profoundly deaf at the age of 40. Ignoring their blatant rudeness, I ploughed on. “Now where are the fluffy Peter Rabbit dolls please?” The shorter of the two women nodded.
“In the corner your Highness.” Okay, so I was wearing black boots, combat leggings and a silver parka but there’s no need to be rude. And sniggering? I’d been watching Frank Skinner on Dave and decided rather than waste another second, I’d go to Toys-R-Us instead and consign these two to Room 101.
Following them swiftly down the chute are the sales tactics of a certain Danish jewellery emporium. I had a £50 voucher burning a hole into my purse and headed for the big white shop opposite the Apple Store. Last year’s treat to myself was the mystical wing pendant which I wear all the time, and before I could say “I’m looking for …” the sales assistant had selected the matching ring in my size, earrings and other related bling and popped it onto the round velvet tray. She wasn’t happy when I said ‘I don’t do matching items’ and she slung on the top of this dragon’s hoard a couple of twisted rings. She seemed very chirpy as she slid the rose gold version onto her finger.
“You’ll love this ring. It really suits my skin tone.” Of course it does, I thought, you’re Afro-Caribbean. Sadly, rose tints do nothing for my Anglo-Saxon hue and paper-cut riven hands but there was no stopping her.
“It’s only a hundred and fifteen pounds so you could use your gift voucher and top it up with another sixty five quid … so it’s a bargain.” My Inner Accountant had to nip this in the bud before I was overwhelmed by the pushy ambiance, so I muttered “I’ll be back on payday” with no intention of returning. Instead, I nipped three doors down and spent my voucher with those nice, un-pushy ladies in Thomas Sabo. So, Room 101, you are welcome to Sales Assistants who try to second-guess their customers.
Room numbers have played a big part in my world recently. There is no Room 101 in the hospital, or if there is it’s a sluice on the first floor. Our File Prep Room is a converted bedroom and has 114 as a locator on the door. It has been freshly painted in beige with all the old chintz and unhygienic
curtains removed for our safety. On my first day back, I was despatched upstairs with an armful of files and as I entered Room 114, I was met with a dreadful apparition. Alibone and Kiranski had been inducted into the new regime since 8.00 am and were both in a terrible state with eyes glazed over, listening to seamless Capital FM tunes about shagging. The whole scenario was undignified.
“Have you two had lunch?” The room smelled vaguely like salad.
“A bowl of alfalfa sprouts with olives and feta and it is very life affirming.” Alibone’s on this ‘Eating for Life’ malarkey and judging by her grey skin, it’s sucked most of her chi down the drain too. “You smell lovely.” She found the strength to smile; at least she wasn’t rocking from side to side.
“It’s Eau de Bacon Sandwich.” I decided not to mention the rest of my customary Thursday morning brunch as I detected drool on her face. In the opposite corner, Kiranski was nibbling on a peanut M&M and obviously distressed.
“They’ve turned off the colour printers to save money.” I think clinical dehydration was making her a bit waftie because the heating was on full blast; even with the window open it was like a roasting oven in there.
After an hour on file preparation duty, I realised we had less enrichment in our working day than the average battery chicken. No soft toys, photos or medical student calendars - a welcome gift from Brighton last year - or personalised mugs are allowed in Room 114. To the casual observer, the management have created a ‘Zombie Zone’ where the staff swiftly become hollow-eyed and monosyllabic just to cope with the staggering workload. Mr Orwell, I salute your genius by lobbing Room 114 into Room 101.
Tip of the Beak: Leicester’s Comedy Festival has been the saviour of the City's sense of humour recently; please don’t mention football if you’re visiting. And I was delighted to secure the last ticket at the Curve to see Romesh Ranganathan being interviewed - www.curveonline.co.uk - have a watch, it’s fascinating. As is something he said about the many times he’d considered giving up comedy.
“Whatever happened, even if I had to go back to being a Maths teacher, I would still have the Coolest Hobby in the World.” So do I.
