'Burst teabags dominated today.  After three at home and two at work, my colleague suggested I email my supermarket and complain'

Columnist Di Wade writes about her eventful week of burst teabags, dodgy payments and coughing fits.
Di WadeDi Wade
Di Wade

I was waylaid in the ladies’ this morning by a colleague asking ‘Have you moved ‘ouse?’ Which I somehow completely misheard as, ‘Have you been doused?’

So while wondering what on earth I was supposed to have been doused in, petrol, Chanel number 5 or L’Oreal Paris, (because I’m worth it), I replied rather sharply, ‘No, why?’, and then had to backpedal furiously as I have moved house recently.

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I’d just been reflecting that I’d no idea where January had gone, but clearly, its having dragged like a comatose snail must mean a less than full life, and mine’s invariably full of something….

February 1: Burst teabags dominated today.

After three at home and two at work, my colleague suggested I email my supermarket and complain.

I am undecided however, if the day job gets too irksome, I might try my luck fortune-telling on South Pier.

February 2: Went into town to buy a birthday present, but was more sold on the self-service machine in the Pound Shop.

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I was just recalling that in December the machines had been full of exhortations to put the tree up then build a snowman, (with what I’ve no idea since there wasn’t a flake of the stuff in Blackpool), when my mum and I were advised that we could pay by cash or card, but not Valentine’s card.

We were then assured that love was in the air, before being finally invited to take our purchases and give them to our loved ones. Not unreasonably, my mum had no patience with this nonsense, and simply bade the machine put a sock in it, but I was howling with laughter.

Not only could I not imagine any loved one thanking me for a packet of batteries and a tube of moisturiser, but the difference from the ‘unexpected items’ grumbles of supermarket self-service was wonderful.

February 6: Was alerted to a payment from my bank account for which I couldn’t account, or at least not until I’d phoned the number provided, fluffed my security questions in my anxiety, been duly cut off and spent the rest of the evening having kittens. It’s not even as though I’m into cats.

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February 7: Got so stuck into the rugby with my Welsh taxi-driver en route to Bispham Kitchen to meet friends after work, that he finally said, ever so politely, ‘Sorry to interrupt, but this Bispham Kitchen, where is it?’ I laughed all the way there and to a carrot cake the probable size of Wales.

February 10: Was into rugby again at the Golden Eagle with my parents, when the obligatory enquiry as to our satisfaction derailed me completely.

Found myself wondering if any marriage proposals had been thwarted by a similar perky waitress popping up with her ‘Is everything alright for you?’.

February 14: Spent Valentine’s Day coughing for Britain before arriving home to a letter asking if I wanted to help my family with my funeral costs.


Just hope I’ve stopped coughing by March.