Bloody dangerous places are DIY stores, like the B&Q; superstore I visited this morning. (That’s an aerial view of the place on the left, by which you can tell that I’m still enjoying playing with Google Earth.
(Click on it for a larger version, if you’re interested.)
I’d been despatched there by Mrs P, the main object being to buy a strimmer that doesn’t require the wearing of cricket pads and boots to be used without ravaging your legs. You see, I been sent to buy a strimmer earlier in the summer and being a bloke, I went for the most powerful model I could find. Trouble is, it is so powerful that it sends debris in all directions, leaving Mrs P’s beshorted legs cut and bruised. The thing is a brute.
Anyway, I chucked a more benign model into the supermarket-style trolley which I’d picked up because Mrs P also wanted some compost which can be pretty heavy stuff to lug around over any distance, so I’d gone prepared, or so I thought.
The only bags they had were bloody enormous — 145 litres of the stuff. I managed to wrestle one into the trolley, but getting it out again and into the back of the car was back-breaking.
As if that wasn’t enough, while I’m struggling in the car park, some idiot who had been buying chipboard nearly took my bloody head off. They’d strapped it to the top of the car, mostly sheets about the width of the roof, but they had some longer strips that they tied crossways so there was about three foot sticking out either side at decapitation level.
I managed to duck back out of the way, but God knows how that journey home went. You do wonder at some people’s though processes, or lack of them.