Time is precious

So back to work we go this week.  That's ok.  I quite like my current job.  I once had a job that I hated so much, I genuinely thought the better option was to crash my car in Potterne so that I wouldn't have to go in the next day.  And the only place you could get a lunchtime sandwich was Lidl.  Yes, it was THAT bad.

Anyway, I had to go to Tesco during one of my lunch breaks this week.  I was working from home, and would much rather have spent my lunch break actually eating lunch (the clue is in the 'lunch break' bit) and watching Judge Rinder, but needs must and all that.  Now, there's only really one thing to say here - Tesco are nobs, because at lunch times, when everyone and his dog are just popping in on their lunch breaks to grab something for tea, Tesco let their staff have a lunch break.  Like, all their staff.  So there was approximately 274 people buying stuff, and 2 people serving.So I spent SEVEN of my precious SIXTY minutes of lunch break standing around doing FUCK ALL waiting to pay for my Tesco Finest Lamb Hot Pot and tub of cubed melon.  SEVEN minutes.  Time it.  It's a long time when you're doing absolutely nothing but staring at the back of a pensioner's head.  So Tesco - pull your fucking finger out and employ someone that can MANAGE A ROTA.  Also, please ban people that stand in front of the doorway with a trolley having a lovely chat about what a lovely Christmas they had, thus wasting another TEN SECONDS OF MY SIXTY MINUTES.  I don't give a shit if you had a lovely Christmas, I give a shit about eating my lunch.  Twats.

Charity door bell ringers.  They can FUCK OFF as well.  I was having a nice chat with one of the youths that live in my house yesterday, when DING DONG goes the bell.  Now, hardly anyone ever comes round my house, predominantly because I tell most people 'don't come round my house because I won't let you in'.  And I don't usually answer the door, but at the moment, I am answering the door because I'm expecting a visit from someone that will be smartly introduced to the cricket bat I keep in the porch.  But that's another story that I won't go into just yet, lest it jeopardises any future court proceedings.

Anyway, I open the door, expecting to see Cricket Bat Face, but no, it was worse that that.  It was a shiny, happy, smiley, bobble-hatted prick with a lanyard.  'Hello!' he said, his smiley, toothy face literally BEAMING at me.  'Thanks for answering the door tonight!'.....Sorry, what?  HOW DOES HE KNOW I NEVER ANSWER THE DOOR?  Anyway, he should be saying 'Thanks for not hitting me with that cricket bat'.  I said 'whatever you're selling no thanks' and went to pull the door shut (my front door opens outwards, THAT'S HOW ROCK N ROLL I AM).  'No, I'm not selling anything, I'm from CANCER RESEARCH.'  Now judge me, fuckers, I don't care, I said 'No thanks, I'm cooking my tea' and shut the door in his face.

Now I know cancer is terrible, our family has been deeply affected by it, most families have, and I do my bit.  But I do not want these jolly, happy, beard-faced goons accosting me on my own property for money.  There's enough people INSIDE my own house trying to screw money out of me, I don't need it on my doorstep too.  I am an adult, if I feel the need to give money to Cancer Research, or orang-utans in Bolivia, or Kleptomaniacs Anonymous, I know how to do it, I do not need to be BOMBARDED WITH SMILEY SHIT while I'm simmering my broad beans.  WHY DO THEY ALWAYS COME AT TEA TIME?  BUGGER OFF BEFORE I GO ALL W. G. GRACE* ON YOUR ASS!

*For any younger readers, W.G. Grace was a man who played cricket with a huge beard. And a bat.