Up early to get into TalkRadio by black cab. Driver asked me what I did for a living. I cleverly told him it was none of his business. That shut him up for the rest of the journey.
Bought cappuccino to take into work. Idiot trainee barrista asked if I wanted to try the new Columbian blend. “I really don’t care,” I told him, “your coffee is always awful. Why should it be any better just because it comes from Colombia.” Rather pleased with this response.
After the show, lunch was a buffet at Indian restaurant round the corner from studio. Moron waiter suggested I try their new chicken curry.
Quick as a flash I replied: “Do you seriously think I come here for the food.” Needless to say he didn’t have anything to say to that.
Hairdressers appointment in the afternoon. Utterly gormless hair-washing girl, couldn’t have been more than 18, asked if I wanted conditioner.
“Do I look like the sort of woman who uses conditioner?” I asked.
She couldn’t find a suitable reply and just carried on rinsing my hair in silence for the next 2 minutes. When she finished she asked if I’d like a cup of coffee.
“It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon,” I parried, “why aren’t you offering me tea?”
No match for my verbal dexterity; she just burst into tears. Honestly, where do they find these people?
Since I can never find an Uber driver now – obviously a failing business model – I had to get the bus to the station. Crowded, but I found a seat with a bit of leg-room that everyone else seemed too shy to sit in. Dreadfully uncomfortable, but at least I didn’t have to stand like the pitifully incompetent mother holding a screaming 2 year old a few inches away from my ears.
“Keep that brat quiet. Some of us are trying to tweet,” I managed to shout into her ear when she bent down to pick up her shopping which by now was falling out of a broken shopping bag and rolling all over the floor. She had nothing clever to say in reply, she just looked rather sad.
On the way home stopped at Waitrose to buy something for dinner. It’s the summer hols so there were the usual spotty teenagers offering to pack shopping. The boy at my till looked about 13. All I bought was a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a Waitrose Essential Provencal Bouillabaisse but the scrotty youth put them in a bag anyway before shaking a collecting tin under my nose.
“What are you collecting for?” I asked him.
“Medecins sans frontieres.”
I didn’t pause for breath before putting him in his place.
“You do know that hardly any of that money will actually be used on people that need it, don’t you? Most of it will just pay the salaries of bloated managers and probably on a new Mercedes for an African dictator. You’ve got blood on your hands.”
The boy started to sniff and then burst into tears, obviously he hadn’t got the first idea about the real world. On the plus side I’d made him look a complete imbecile; my only regret was that it took me more than 140 characters.