Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Dairy w/e 8^th May 2005

Sunday is a day for chilling. A day for relaxing with the Sunday papers. A day for drinking lots of cups of strong black coffee, scoffing mountains of bacon butties and generally slobbing about scratching your backside. With this schedule in mind I’d popped down the corner shop for the broadsheets a couple of pounds of smoked back and a dozen white rolls.

The first packet of bacon was sizzling away in the pan as I glanced at the front pages. Given the recent election and all it’s saturation coverage I couldn’t stomach the main guts of the paper. The sports section was dominated by football of which I’m not a great fan and the business pages are a non-starter. Things were looking grim I was going to have to read the colour supplement.

I picked it up flicking idly through it’s glossy pages, barely glancing at the glitzy photography all the while wondering why in this day and age they felt that ‘colour’ was an outstanding selling point. Colour is a gimmie, a fairly basic requirement I would have thought. You wouldn’t advertise anything else like that. Can you see Mercedes buffing up a shimmering silver CLK Coupe giving it pride of place on the forecourt and then slapping a sticker on the window that says ‘Complete with Wheels!’,’ AND a spare in the boot!’ I think not.

I decanted five or six rashers of bacon on to a thickly buttered roll and topped up the frying pan ‘Mmmflippinmm rubbishmm’ I mumbled through a mouthful of crispy bacon. I ploughed onwards. The supplement was split into the usual sections, Arts, Theatre, Dance (why?), Homes, and Holidays. Oh the ‘Homes’ section is usually good for a laugh. The usual dross on how to ‘simply’ transform your plain two bed roomed semi into a palatial suburban boudoir. I’ll agree it’s perfectly ‘simple’ if you happen to have Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen mincing about designing it for you and don’t mind going forty grand over your original budget of £500!

Your sitting with your head in your hands sobbing as the dandy highwayman raves about the iconic nature of his creation. You’re in the midst of repossession proceedings as he ‘Oooh’s and ‘Aaah’s over the contrast of light and shade and the vibrant dynamism that he’s brought to the property. Your bank manager has already frozen your account and is declaring you bankrupt. The local moneylender you resorted to whilst funding the ‘essential’ fourth crystal chandelier is aggrieved at your inability to meet his ‘competitive’ interest rates. He’s currently sending his two of his larger ‘representatives’ round to present you with some easy repayment ‘options’ i.e. you pay up and they’ll go easy on you. Fail to cough up and they will provide you with complimentary orthopaedic surgery courtesy of a sturdy length of two by four.

I’ll stick to my woodchip wallpaper magnolia paint and fully functioning knee joints thanks ye curly locked fop!

The second batch of rashers was flipped into an open roll and I turned the magazine over and started from the back. Surprisingly enough a plethora of adverts for chairlifts and outdoor sunscreens did little to improve my humour. ‘Who mmbuys this feckin mmkeechmm’ I wondered as I squirted a big dollop of HP sauce into the centre of my butty. I bypassed the stair lifts reckoning I could get up the stairs quicker using nothing but my teeth. As for the sun awning, the thick storm clouds gathering outside were providing an effective and very cheap screen as it was. That and the golf ball sized hailstones that were currently turning my veranda into crazy paving. They would have made short work of both the sun awning and Ex-Superintendent John Stalker! Oh and if anyone can tell me how a distinguished career in law enforcement qualifies you to sell garden accessories do please tell.

Having exhausted both the bacon and all readable parts of the paper I decided to pop into town for a wee bit of retail therapy. I needed to get some new shirts for work anyway.

The company I work for has a ‘business casual’ dress policy which means we can get away with wearing polo shirts rather than a formal shirt-tie combo. A bonus indeed as a tie serves no purpose other than to be a magnet for food stains (only foods of opposing colours of course) It also means I can shop at the ‘Sports Stores’ ……

I perused the myriad of shirts and selected four to try on. I couldn’t see any changing signs so I stopped to ask a sales assistant ‘Excuse me Miss are there any changing rooms?’ She gave me a blank look ‘Changing rooms?’, ‘Uuuh’, ‘Rooms for changing in?’, ‘Uuuhh’ It was at this point I noticed the ‘trainee’ badge and the rabbit in the headlights look of terror ‘aaah’m new ken’, ‘It’s ok I’ll ask-‘, ‘Ahh just price stuff ken’, ‘That’s ok-‘ She dropped her pricing gun and ran for the exit ‘Riiiiight I’ll eer just walk over here then’

I wandered through the golf section before finally spotting a changing room ‘about time’ I strode towards the front door and was just about to enter when I felt something jab me in the back propelling me forwards and flattening my face against the wall ‘ooommppff’, ‘You just hold on there boy’, ‘What the-‘, ‘What you got on the hangers boy’, ‘I jusht want to try on shome shirts-‘, ‘What’s that sign say boy’ I strained to read the sign my face was pressed into ‘it shays Maxshimum three garmentsh’ I spluttered through my mangled lips ‘Cant you count boy?’, ‘I didntooommppff’

A four iron smacked into the ribs carries quite a punch. The redneck assistant took three of the shirts off their hangers and handed them back to me ‘We get a lot of thieves in here boy’, ‘I resent thaooompppff’, ‘You got two minutes boy then ah’m coming to get you’ He took out his keys and unlocked the changing room. I hobbled in and shut the door behind me ’90 seconds boy’ I tried the shirts on in record time and was buttoning my shirt back up when the door burst open ‘times up boy’, ‘Yes I think I’ll take thesooompppff’

I understand that shoplifting can be a problem but I do feel that their security measures were somewhat severe. The cavity search was the straw that broke the camels back and I’m afraid I lost the rag and stormed out (or more accurately hobbled)

I shall be shopping at Marks and Spencer’s from now on, at least there they wear a rubber glove.

Doei