Off my trolley 

Every now and again in life there is one of those moments where you have to hold your hands up in the air and admit to yourself that you have to cross a line in the sand.  I had one of those moments today, I bought myself a shopping trolley. You know, one of those awful things that little old ladies are so fond of dragging across your feet and scraping the back of your heals with. Like permantly wearing glasses a decade ago it became one of those choices that cease to be a choice and was then a necessity.

Ok, flash back to yesterday where my Halloween started at six am scanning receipts and ended at midnight with me putting the last envelope of nitpicky crap into the last folder with no breaks inbetween. You have to do this sort of crap if you want to prove how poor you are to the authorities… Oh the life of an artist! 
Only today it turned out that they only wanted the paperwork and not the reams of proof that goes with it. This left me with a major problem, loaded down with all that paperwork, how the hell was I going to buy all the stuff I needed to now that I had finally made my bi monthly trip into town? Car owners don’t have this problem, the weight of things, what the weather is like, time and energy spent walking, the capricious nature of public transport, it all magically goes away and very soon they forget what a pain in the arse just doing the basics in life is. So today I bit the bullet and bought one of those wretched wheeled contraptions. It is a tasteful black one rather than the evil black watch tartan variety so popular amongst  the aged community but it still smacks of old biddydom and I felt hideously uncool dragging it through esk, the weird shop in Hastings that is a cornucopia of weird, random, stuff and then along the sea front and home.

I have a strange connection to the awful contraptions as when I lived in London I had the misfortune of having the factory that made the wretched things right next door to my home. It was already an odd place to reside in, an estate agent would describe it as “characterful” or some such rot. It was one of those places that whilst not on the standard of squalor associated with London living now for anyone who isn’t a stockbroker, it was impossible to rent out legally as it was actually part of a car mechanics premises and not only was I pestered constantly by people wondering why there was no one to repair their crappy old car on a Sunday morning but the precious M.O.T certificates and embossing stamps were kept in a hidden safe in the living room so that breakfast and dinner would always be disturbed by the landlords coming and going. No wonder I live in the hardest place to find now and avoid people for the most part. I remember the streets always being strewn with bits of trolley, plastic wheels and little washers used to roll everywhere in their bid for freedom and the people who worked there alway had that dead eyed look of the incredibly stupid as if there was not a single spark of imagination to be found anywhere in their heads. To cut a long story short, living there was annoying but a neccessary evil when being skint the in country’s capital.

You know, I can’t remember the last time I saw a factory, somewhere that actually made things, everything now mysteriously appears from Chinese now as we slowly destroy this countries balance of payments, economy and the environment shipping more crap with limited lifespans accross the planet and hey! I can buy even more of it now, with my big shopping bag on wheels, lucky me! 


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