Another
good night’s sleep. Over brekkie my piss boiled as I looked on-line. A couple
of weeks ago I mentioned how Geo-HQ have decided to single out the top one per
cent of hunters of Tupperware worldwide by giving them the chance to put out a
certain type of geocache. I’m still sulking that I didn’t make the grade, and I’ve
used the software to look at these new special caches (as they are being created) and from that I can look at the people
who’ve been selected to be the top one per cent.
The
criteria used to select people is secret. I’m not surprised. I would have
thought that the people selected would have been those who have contributed
most toward the hobby (or Geo-HQ’s
business, depending on your personal perspective). I’ve now looked at a
couple of dozen of the supposed top one per cent. Some are deserved. However most
(but not all) have hidden less than
twenty caches; many less than ten. People I know who have hidden hundreds and
spent hours organising events haven’t had a sniff. I wonder if those singling
out the top one per cent realise just how insulting they have been? And how
this bad decision will impact their business as those of us who’ve contributed
for so long sit back and stop doing so.
I
put the leads on to the dogs and we went round the park. I did snigger as both
dogs walked within a few feet of a squirrel who sat and watched them pass. For
some reason the camera on my phone scared him far more than the oblivious dogs
did. We then met OrangeHead’s chunky little friend and got chatting; her dog
has been ill recently but he has had the metal supports taken from his leg and
is now walking on his own. A couple of days ago I whinged about the increasing
monthly direct debit for Fudge’s health care plan. OrangeHead’s chunky little
friend pays one hundred and four pounds every month on her dog’s care plan. I
wonder if Fudge’s will go up to that eventually? We got talking about vets. She
didn’t have a good word to say about the vets we use. Interestingly she was
singing the praises of a vet of whom I’ve heard terrible things said.
I
suppose there is good and bad in all vets.
We
came home, I spent a few minutes reading the most recent edition of “Viz” as both dogs sat on the back of the
sofa and growled at imaginary things in the street. They must have been
imaginary; I couldn’t see anything that might have upset them.
I
then set off on a little pre-late-shift mission. Regular readers of this drivel
may recall I tried to get my car valeted at the weekend. Today I actually got
it done. I went to the car wash in Ellingham for the simple reason that they
advertise that they offer the best hand job in town. Puerile things appeal to
me.
It
might not be the best hand job in town, but t is certainly far superior to what
you can get in Tesco's car park. The surly bloke in Tesco's car park wanted me
to leave my car with him for at least an hour, and wanted twenty-five quid for
his troubles. The people in Ellingham wanted sixteen quid and offered "while you wait" service. I waited;
it took just under twenty-five minutes and my car is gleaming as if new both
inside and out.
I
then drove into town to get some stuff for next week's holiday. I went to
Sports Direct to get swimming shorts. Whilst I was there I got a couple of
shirts too. It is odd that Go Outdoors and Matalan and most shops don't
cater for fat blokes like me, but a sports shop does.
I
spent ages at the till; the poor girl wasn't very efficient, and after every
sale she had to radio through to the security guard to tell him what each
punter had bought presumably in case the customers tried to snaffle
anything on the way out. As she struggled to keep up with a growing queue,
four members of staff were openly standing about gossiping about the supposed
pregnancy of a fifth. Ironically there was a huge sign behind the tills
advertising the shop's website. The sign asked us to go to the website as there
was a link from it from which you can complain about how long you'd had to
queue to get to the till.
I
also needed some Euros. "My Boy TM" had told me I
will need three hundred of the things for our upcoming holiday. Bearing in
mind he also told me this holiday was "all-inclusive"
I thought that three hundred Euros was a tad excessive, but what do I
know? I went to the bank and stood for fifteen minutes behind some idiot
who couldn't understand that if a direct debit is taken on ten months of the
year, then there will be two months when it is not taken.
Eventually
I got to the head of the queue; they'd sold out of Euros. In retrospect I
think I might have been a tad impatient with the nice lady on the counter
when I asked if the largest bank in the country had really run out of
Euros. But just as she grovelled there was a minor commotion behind me. What I
can only describe as "RoboCop"
had arrived. The nice lady said that if i would wait for two minutes they
had just had a delivery of money. Presumably from "RoboCop"?
After
five minutes the nice lady was all apologetic again. The bank only sold Euros
in batches of two hundred. I told her I would take two hundred, and asked about
the little incident earlier in the year when they sold me fifty of the things (on two different occasions). But the
nice lady wasn't having any of it; Euros come in batches of two hundred.
But
she did say I might try Thomas Cook. They do lesser amounts. She didn't
actually say "for the sort of
peasant who can't afford Euros in two-hundred amounts" but her tone
conveyed it very well.
I
tried Thomas Cook... Oh dear. The trouble with Thomas Cook is that they are a
travel agent. They don't just do money, they do holidays too. I found
myself in a queue behind some old harridan who wanted to know every single
detail of the hotel in Corfu she'd booked. Having had a full run-down of the
layout of the hotel and of the menu and the meal times she then wanted the
specifications of the hair dryer that the brochure said would be in her room.
My patience was wearing thin - I left the shop.
I
went to the post office. However their foreign currency counter also deals with
passport problems. The half-wit in front of me in this queue had a son who was
changing his name by deed poll; did he need a new passport with the correct
details on it? Or could he travel on a passport that bore no relation
to any other paperwork he might be carrying?
She
didn't like the answer she got, and had a rant. Her and her tribe are going on
holiday next August (August!) and she
wanted the problem sorted now. Right now. But (ideally) she didn't want there to be a problem at all. She
then stood and stared at the woman behind the counter as if offering her the
chance to come up with a more acceptable response than needing a new
passport.
After
a couple of minutes I asked if she was done as I was in something of a rush.
I
was only ten minutes late back to the car park; fortunately no traffic wardens
had been round to check.
My
lunchtime McDonalds was well deserved, and after a rather traumatic
morning I went in to the late shift hoping for a rest…
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