How I lost my soul in Morrisons supermarket.

One of my pet hates is when supermarkets change their layout. My local - Morrisons - has done it and I keep forgetting so I always leave with only half of what I meant to buy and a pulsing urge to slap some bitches sideways.

Today I went shoe shopping with BFF Main Gay.5 which is actually more agonising than clothes shopping with him. I was wearing my mutilated old work shoes and was feeling it after an hour or so. In the evening, I went into Morrisons looking for burgers, sausages and bacon. Not that much to ask, no? But still I ended up stranded in Morrisons after circling the place five times, pacing the aisle and glued to my phone.

I called my mum for back up because she's generally very calm in these situations (other than the time she abandoned the trolley and stormed out of Tesco) but instead I got the worst possible answer:

"Hello Mofo." said a strangely accented voice.

"Cleo?! What the fuck? Put Mum on."

"She's not here."

"Why? What have you done?"

"She's gone into the store."

"And why have you got her phone?"

"I dunno."

"So how am I supposed to call her?" Panic stricken by this point.

"I dunno."

"Fuck it. I'm hanging up."

"Bye Mofo."

*click*

So I ran around Morrisons looking for my mum, my shoes flapping and my feet killing. Two minutes later someone calls my attention, I'm so stressed out I don't even think notice my feet feeling slightly cold.

"Excuse me! You've left something of your shoe here." A nice man said, pointing to a black mess of tortured rubber a few feet away.

I looked at it. I looked at him. I looked at my basket, which was empty, and said:

"Yes I expect that'll be the sole of my shoe."

I said thanks and walked out of Morrisons with my shoe doing rings around my ankle.

I hate that place so fucking much right now.

This makes me look like Jesus.

Zut alors...

I'm a bit of a martyr, you know that, right?

My lovely husband (political marriage, don't ask) came to me in a state of near despair last night.

EVIL COMPANY* had sent him the wrong DVD.

The poor love had been looking to enrich his mind** with Ray Mears' Northern Wilderness and instead received 'Allo 'Allo Series Three***.

After the initial argument over which was better I said I'd phone the next day and get it all sorted out for him because I'm awesome like that and also because getting to phone a company and say "I'm calling on behalf of my husband" aged 16 seems kinda thrilling in comparison with my somewhat mundane life.

It took me a solid hour to find the contact details for this company. They're not a small company either. UK and Europe-wide.

Today I phoned up foolishly expecting a person to answer the phone but instead got one of those automated receivers who talk in a really soft voice like in a 1960's porn film. It gave me a list of things to do, but in the end said 'for all other enquiries, please hold'. What could this mean?

People people! Talky talky!

Within two minutes I was put on hold again.

And then again.

And then finally when they tried to put me on hold again I yelled "NO DON'T PUT ME ON HO-" and then Yellow Submarine started playing.

I suffered for this.

Eventually it all got sorted out, and it was an unexpected confidence booster because half of my job is customer services in store.

I pretty much deserve Hubs' soul for this.

---

* Not calling names. I doubt that it happens often of else they'd be easier to bloody contact.
** Hahahahaha...
*** Which, personally, I think rocks.

Get me the number of a reputable lawyer. Now.

Today I went to the big-ass shopping outlet just outside of York.

Designer Outlet, meet Blog, Blog meet Designer Outlet.

Designer Outlet is home to every big brand you can imagine and then some, and because it's an outlet you can buy things in bulk for less than anywhere else.

Then you realise that the brands are too expensive and fuck off home fuming over the time you wasted.

Makes for a good day out.

After this ritual I dragged my sister back to York for some more shopping, namely at HMV - the only place in York that sells a decent amount of DVDs since Zavvi went bust.

Ahh... Let me tell you that HMV has never let me down, from there I have obtained many things... Superman shirts, countless albums and DVDs, posters, games... the works.

So why oh why when I go to buy a cert-15 movie does some cocky shit ask me for ID?

Why?!

"Well," He said. "I can't sell you this without some I.D."

I honestly felt the tiny strings of calm popping in my head. Do I look fourteen?

It takes quite a bit for me to lose it completely, but this guy really found the target.

I listed all the various bits of I.D. I had on my person, "School library card?" [Note: It has never been used.] "Bank card?", "National Insurance Number?".

And he was just all: "They might not be yours."

I saw red. And at this point I'm going to have to highlight the difference between what I said and what I thought.

Now look here you surly bastard...

"But... all the details here match. All of these are mine." I whined. Probably not the best idea when trying to prove my age.

"You could have stolen it."

"..."

FUCK YOU, MAN.

"Well, whatever. What do I need to prove my age then?"

"Photo I.D. A passport or a driving license."

DO I LOOK LIKE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO CARRIES A PASSPORT AROUND WITH ME? WHAT IS THIS? EAST FUCKING BERLIN?!

"Right, okay, thank you."

---Charged home---

"WHERE'S MY PASSPORT?!"

My dad was mildly alarmed. "Uhh... what?"

"I said, where is my passport? And my driver's license, and my birth certificate, and that certificate I won in that K'Nex competition." (It may not have looked like that.)

Typical question: "Why?"

"Because, Father, I want to march back to HMV and shove it all up the arse of the guy who didn't let my buy my fucking DVDs."

So me and my dad searched the entire house for my goddamn passport which I must say my mum has hidden VERY well because now the only conclusion I can come to is that she has a nagging fear that I am going to flee the country soon because of all my talk of Seattle and living with my homies in a ghetto in South Chicago and let us not forget Finland which I love very very much.

We could not find that damn passport anywhere.

Next time I go to HMV I will be taking my passport, my birth certificate, a bus pass, ten years of medical record, my dentist and that guy's death certificate.

That'll fucking teach them.