Anyway, I digress.
Today I went to the hairdressers.
This was a rare and much looked forward to event.
Being in the hairdressers means the following:
Cups of tea get brought to you, you do not have to move for OVER AN HOUR, nobody cries (well not usually), nobody tells you they need a wee and can't touch their willy because they don't want to wash their hands (and if they did, somebody would call the police) and nobody starts to cry when you tell them they can't have a biscuit.
So I was looking forward to 100 Minutes of Solitude.
The woman who cuts my hair is very good at cutting hair but she is NOT very good at taking the hint and just getting on with the job at hand rather than waffling on about utter piffle.
It went something like this (thoughts in italics):
Her: So you got anything exciting planned for tonight?
Me: (What? Are you kidding? This is a Saturday night? The most exciting thing that happens to people like me is watching people fall off the giant red balls on 'Total Wipeout') No, not tonight.
Her: Whaaaat? No parties? On a SATURDAY!?
Me: (Yes my life is THAT lame) Well I've got 2 small kids, it's hard you know.
Her: YOU'VE GOT KIDS!
Me: (Yes kids, they're not actually contagious, you don't need to make it sound as if I've got Rabies or, in fact, Swine Flu) Yeah, two.
Her: OH. MY. GOD
Me: (What? You don't normally cut the hair of women who have bred?) Yeah.
Her: Going away this summer?
Me: (Feeling I have to apologise for my sheer boringness) Well we had to go to the Lake District for a week for my Grandad's 90th........ (this isn't helping is it?).
Her: Oh well that must have been AMAZING. At least you got out.
Me: Thanks (I think).
Her: My mum and dad have been in Portugal this last week and I HATE IT. Your life just isn't normal anymore - you constantly find yourself stressing about stuff like whether or not you've shut the front door or turned the oven off.
Me: Erm, yeah, that must be really stressful (what? WHAT!? She's in her twenties this girl - by that age I could cope with turning the oven off).
Her: Do you worry about that stuff then?
Me: Not any more.
Her: Do ya watch Big Brother?
Her: Oh OK then, well it's like this...... (20 solid minutes of her describing every detail of a show that I have spent the last x week deliberately avoiding. From what I can recall, they are all a 'bunch of bitches').
Me: Oh right. Sounds, erm, fascinating.
Her: AND THEN.....my hamster DIED.
Me: What? On Big Brother?
Her: No, in his cage. God I am SO DEPRESSED.
Me: (Here we go again, having to smile and take whinge-bags using the word 'depressed' to describe sh1t like their hamster dying rather than the actual reality of wandering in a black void from which there feels to be no escape and in which hope is lost to the point of truly wanting to die) Yeah it must have been, erm, sad.
Her: Yeah it was SO DEPRESSING. Like the worst thing EVER.
Me: How old was he?
Me: (Well what the f'ck do you expect? That is ancient in hamster years. Did you expect him to defy the laws of nature and live forever or something? You numpty) Well it was a good age. For a rodent. I had a lot of hamsters as a kid. 6 actually. One after the other. Spanning 12 years. Hammy 1, Hammy 2, Hammy 3, Hammy 4.....you catch my drift. In the end I thought it was all a bit pointless. Guinea pigs are better anyway. 2 years is normal so he did well - don't beat yourself up about it.
Her: Yeah but I can NEVER LIVE THROUGH THE PAIN AGAIN.
Me: Oh (well, hate to say this love, but it's gonna get worse).
Her: So I'm gonna get a tortoise.
Me: Riiiiiiight (hamster? tortoise? Same thing innit? No - it's not).
Her: Yeah they live to like a ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD. So hopefully I will die first.
Me: Yes, hopefully you will.
Her: It will save me from the pain.
Me: mmmmm (I could say a lot here but I dare not).
Her: It was either that or a parrot. They get really old too. But I couldn't take the mess. Or the noise.
Me: Yes I shouldn't imagine tortoises are that noisy.
Her: No. Far as I know they don't say nothing.
Me: No, can't say I've ever heard one make a noise let alone say anything... sorry could I have another magazine? (Images of talking tortoises flashing through my brain....).
And with that I was presented with a pile of magazines containing approximately 3,600 photographs of Michael Jackson and 2,600 'exclusive' pieces of information about Jordan and Peter's marriage.
Well at least my hair looks better.