I went grocery shopping — skipped out of the house, down the stairs, across the luscious lawn, bipped my way into the car, engine kicks over and I’m FREE! Slowly slowly, navigate my way, ’round the corner, past all the parked cars blocking my view, onto the busy road, manage my way through three sets of traffic lights and snap! I scored my favourite car park — actually, it’s my old favourite car park — from when I used to live on my own and drove my snappy little sporty silver delicious bullet. Anyway, things are going so well, I flick my pony tail (not really), bounce up the stairs and actually start grinning on my way up the escalator (true). Passing the funky optometrist, check my reflection and notice my posture is TERRIBLE; sneer at the cafe I love to hate, past the newsagent, past the hideous boutique that nonethless always looks better than it is (waaaay better); give the finger to the real estate agent (not really), then into the grocery store, pick up a few things, here, there, ooooh, I might get some icreeeeeeeaaaam aaaaaannnnnndddd STOP.

Did I remember my wallet?

Did I?

Well, what do you think?

Oh for fuck’s sake! Swear. Sorry.


Stop. Slow down. breathe…

…ditch my trolley, just leave it right there, don’t look back, walk out the door, text the huzz: “Where is my wallet?”; try very hard not to drop to the ground and throw a screaming tantrum; back past the shops, escalator, car, street, front steps, in the door, there it is, “bye honey”; back in the car, rinse, repeat… and back into the shop to find my lovely little trolley just sitting there where I left it. Carry on. Don’t forget the ice cream (I didn’t).


The proof