I do hate the idea of hating anyone (see what I did there?), however, there are some people in this world who I would happily throw rotten tomatoes at. Now, I’m not talking about the murderers or the muggers or the MPs, it goes without saying that we all hate those dudes and would like to condemn them to a world filled entirely with traffic wardens, cold callers, tiny yappy dogs and children having tantrums set to a soundtrack of finger nails scratching down blackboards, James Blunt albums and noisy eaters.
No, I’m referring to these irritants:
You’re out in the car driving along a two lane road. One of the lanes takes you into town or on to the motorway or towards the seaside. You are in this lane. It is jam packed, moving so slowly that you could get out and walk faster. You are waiting patiently with cramp in your left foot due to the clutch control required to travel at the heady speed of three and a half miles an hour. The other lane is completely empty because it only leads to an industrial estate or the bins at the back of Tescos.
In your rear view mirror, you spot a car in the other lane travelling pretty fast. It drives past vehicle after vehicle, all of which have been sitting and queuing patiently. At the last minute the driver blatently attempts to push into the slow moving lane, right at the front, thus avoiding the miles of queues. Now, don’t get me wrong. I dislike this motorist. He is a cocky cheater. I want the front of his car to rust over instantly and for his wheels to turn square. But I do not hate him. Do you know who I hate? Captain create-a-space. The weak, spineless, overly generous git who creates a lovely car shaped space for cocky cheater to glide effortlessly into. No. No. No! What is wrong with you? The correct action in these circumstances is for you to drive so close to the car in front that you are virtually a back seat passenger, ensuring absolutely no room for cocky cheater to queue jump. When you don’t do this. I hate you.
I had a formal meeting with a male member of staff recently. He had long finger nails. It was weird. It creeped me out. That is all.
More clothes, please
The weather in Brighton on Saturday got up to about 16 degrees. Yes, that’s decidedly spring like. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and it felt nice and warm. But it only felt nice and warm because I was wearing jeans and a jumper. It was not tiny dress and sandals weather, which is what I was confronted with when I was walking through town. Daft, half dressed girls who were clearly regretting rifling through their summer wardrobe prematurely as they shivered around the shops. If I booked a summer holiday to sun drenched Spain and discovered that it was 16 degrees when I arrived, I would be rushing to the ‘Tienda de ropa’ to buy myself a cardie and some fluffy socks, sharpish. For goodness sake, put a coat on.
Post office pest
I work Monday to Friday, from 9am to 5pm. If the day is going well, I get a half hour lunch break. Sometimes during this teeny tiny break time, I have to visit the bank or the post office. When I get to the bank or the post office and I find an old person in the queue, rage bubbles up inside me. I like old people. I have a Grandmother who I love very much. She is very old. I might have once tittered during Last of the Summer Wine at the antics of a bunch of elderly men and I eat Shreddies for the sole reason that they have been knitted by Nannas. However, when old people have eight hours to go to the bank or the post office and yet, choose my precious, cherished and decidely brief thirty minute break. I see red. Not least because they have no sense of urgency:
“Oh, while I’m here dear, can I ask you to count up this giant bag of 5ps that I’ve been collecting since the small coins came out in 1990? They are too tiny for me to see so I’ve just been saving them all up.”
[After waiting in the queue for ten minutes]. “You’ll need my bank book? Really? But I’m Mrs Jones and I’ve been coming to this bank for fifty years. My late husband did all his banking here. Is that not enough? Well, I’ll have to find the book then. I think it’s somewhere in my handbag. Hold on a moment, duck.”
Would you like to sit on my lap?
Brad and I went for lunch at a well known
fast food joint salad bar today. We chose some empty seats in the window so that we could watch the world go by as we ate. The venue wasn’t hugely busy and there were quite a few empty window seats. As we were merrily tucking into our fries vegetable wraps, two men came and sat right next to us. They were so close that if you didn’t know better, you would have assumed that the four of us were friends. We are not friends. I did not like it. Those men ruined my burger healthy eating experience and for that I hate them.
So there we have it. As long as you are not someone who: lets cheating drivers into heavy traffic, is a man with long fingernails, fails to wear a coat, visits the post office at lunchtime if you’re not working or sits inappropriately close to me, I’ll probably not hate you.