My next blog was, of course, supposed to be part 2 of 'the trolley wars...' but what can you do? Life happens and you must either record it or let it go by without so much as a 'how's yer father?'. Nope. Not for me, the unexamined life. I blog therefore I am.
Yesterday, The Princess Bookaholic did the afternoon shift. It was actually her turn to do the coveted morning shift - we both like the morning shift best; it means you get an early mark in the afternoon - but she gave it up to me at the last minute. She was wandering around the house with her hair like a madwoman's and whining about how tired she was, so what was I to do? What would any good mother do?
I said, "I'll go in for you if you like."
She hesitated a moment, yawned and whined a little more and then said, "Yeah, okay."
I then did a little dance and said, "Yippee! I'll be out of there by 2 o'clock."
And why was she so tired by the way? Because she was up all night reading the Count of Monte Christo off the classics table is why.
But that's not why I'm writing this.
Later, after all was said and done at The Incidental Bookshop for the day, when the last book was sold, the till closed down and the millions tallied, The Princess bookaholic said to me, "Oh yeah. A little blonde lady came in looking for you. She said you helped her and she wanted to thank you."
Oh, really? "How'd I help her?"
"She didn't want to say," said P.B.
She didn't want to SAY? How mysterious! Surely I would remember helping someone with something they didn't want to talk about in polite company?
Anyhow, there I was today, loafing about behind the counter, reading a book called The Answer which will apparently make me a billionaire, when up rushed a little blonde lady that I wouldn't know from a bar of soap.
She said, "I just wanted to thank you!" She put a box of chocolates on the counter for me.
Hmmm. I looked at her carefully. I couldn't say to her, "I think you have the wrong person." I didn't want to risk losing the chocolates.
She looked embarrassed and leaned in close to speak to me. "I'm the one who... um... well, a few weeks back... er ... my grand daughter ... she ... oh, she vomited on your floor."
"Oh! YES!" I said in happy recognition (as if it had forged a bond between us, as if from now on we would be forever spew-sisters, united in the memory of the trauma of that day. In fact, I think I'm going to call it 5/27 from now and carry a bucket around all day on the anniversary in order to commemorate it.)
"You were so kind and nice," she said. "So gracious." Me gracious? "And it was so awful! What a mess! All that vile red bile!"
"Well, I have to say, I did wonder what...'
"Beetroot and watermelon," she replied sadly, as though it was something to be ashamed of that her grand daughter had only eaten beetroot and watermelon whilst under her care.
We had a great laugh over it and after she had gone, I ate all of the chocolates by myself because it was so quiet and boring and because they were there. It was only a small box but it was more than one ought to eat in a single session before the sun is even over the yard arm. After that, for a short while, I felt in danger of barfing all over the floor myself.