I slept like a log, waking after eight hours asleep. I made toast and made my sandwiches for work once I’d found where the peanut butter had gone. Jam, margarine and marmalade all stay where I leave them, but peanut butter really does grow legs and walks away.
I made brekkie and rolled my eyes as I read Facebook. Some of the questions on the work-related Facebook pages amaze me. In the UK we have national standards of how to operate in a blood transfusion laboratory. Reading the Facebook pages it would seem this is not the case in America with each lab doing its own thing, and several people asking advice and opinion on what is (over here) established protocols.
American healthcare – paying a small fortune for something far inferior to what the UK offers for free… (!)
A cousin of mine was having a bit of a rant on Facebook this morning too. There is a chap who sits on the pavement in Ore Village (in Hastings) with a begging bowl. Every day this fellow comes into the shop where she works; her boss has an arrangement with him that he can change up the coins he is given for bank notes. The beggar doesn’t want to carry loose change about as it is so heavy; the shop owner doesn’t want the arse-ache of going to the bank for change. Everyone is happy with the arrangement… except the shop staff who can see that this chap makes more money in a few hours begging than they make in a day working. And those working in the shop have to pay tax too. To add insult to injury the beggar (apparently) regularly refers to begging as “his job”.
Perhaps this chap is truly needy? Perhaps he really can’t get “proper” employment? But there’s clearly something wrong when you can get more money by holding your hand out than by doing an honest day’s work.
I spent half an hour geo-jigsaw-ing then got ready for the morning. I put on a pair of the new socks I bought on Tuesday evening (rather flimsy!) and Munzee-ed my way to the town centre capping enough bar-codes as I went to open a qrate and even get a new one (as you do).
It wasn’t long before I was at the opticians. In the past I’ve always gone to SpecSavers, but regular readers of this drivel may recall that the last time I went there they didn’t realise that one of my ears is higher than the other. Their ill-fitting glasses gave me double vision and a week off work.
As the nice people at Brownbills looked at my glasses this morning they asked how I got on with them; specifically the varifocal bit. On reflection I said that I did feel I had to tilt my head back rather a lot for it to work. The nice lady showed me how the varifocal bit of my specs was a fraction of the size it was supposed to be, and also showed me how my glasses should be sitting on my nose. SpecSavers are all very well *if* you want cheap. But demonstrably (in my case) cheap doesn’t actually do the job.
I had my eyes photographed and pressure-tested, then had a serious session with the optometrist. My distance vision is fine, but my close-up vision prescription had changed somewhat. It was almost as if I’d spent two years with no close-up bit on my glasses (!)
I must admit I sat up and took notice when I got the bill for new specs but, as I’ve found to my cost, if you pay cheap you end up with double vision, a week off work on sick leave and a place in the emergency eye clinic at the hospital.
As I walked home I phoned my dad. He’s doing OK. My aunt was visiting and I wound her up rather impressively. I’ve always made a point of calling her “aunty” because it makes her feel old. I deliberately didn’t today and she took the bait. She asked why I hadn’t called her “aunty” so I said I didn’t think she’d want to be called “aunty” by someone who is a grandfather. I did laugh at her reply.
I came home via the corner shop where I got pastries to scoff with coffee. As I scoffed I did more geo-puzzle; a four-hundred-piece puzzle of SpongeBob SquarePants. A rather dull way to go geocaching, but there it is. Until the puzzle is solved (or blagged) the location of the final film pot remains a secret.
After an hour I got rather bored, put on my new shirt that I bought on Tuesday evening (not too flimsy) and set off to work.
As I drove up the motorway I caught the end of some utter drivel on the radio. It was claimed that Mongolians are becoming world-famous as opera singers and sumo-wrestlers. Apparently the wide open steppes improves the baritone notes and muscular build? I turned the radio off and sang along to my rather odd choice of music, then (once I'd scoffed a bag of fish and chips flavoured crisps) I got on with the late shift. There was no cake, which was something of a disappointment. In fact the late shit was rather dull, and by the time I'd navigated the diversion caused by the closed motorway, got home, finally found somewhere to park the car and had a very late dinner it was nearly bed time.
The late shifts are all very well, but they do mean that the day is effectively over by the early afternoon.
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