Woman in a Tabard

So I’m stewing over the reality of my mother’s recent words “why don’t you try ALDI for a job?” and wondering if the tabard-induced self-esteem dip would be counter-balanced by the potential writing material. I’ve done supermarkets before and even on the Kings Road branch of Waitrose I got a tub of butter thrown at me (and worse than that, a (still current) huge love of mine, Jean Boht, shot me a look of pity on the day I was handing out free samples of apple whilst wearing a butcher’s uniform).

Then it dawns on me that I have previously fought off bankruptcy – adding Ann Summers party-hosting to a hoard of jobs – and, whilst I’m far from desperate to return to plugging Cock Rub, I thought there may be some mileage in documenting one of my recalled evenings of working in this role.

This particular party started less than confidently, given the previous day I had… (oh dear, this is embarrassing…) managed to break my nose and eye socket with a hammer, whilst replacing floorboards. I turned up looking like I’d been hit by a tram – not someone who could aid your love life. The evening, an 18th birthday party held in the middle of Byker (think The Bronx, in Newcastle), went rapidly downhill in terms of people caning any liquid they could get their hands on (I swear I saw Tipex-thinner necked at one point).

Amidst a post-menopausal woman revealing she’d been “pissed on” during a one night stand, (which got an applause that would have done Newcastle United proud), the doorbell rang and the room fell silent as a man walked in with a baby.  In an accent thicker than that of geordie Michael in Alan Partridge, he matter-of-factly told the host (the mother of the child) “it’s been bein’ sick for two days like so I brought it back”. The baby was grey.

Now normally I’d have questioned my own judgement and kept quiet (I once witnessed a car crash and completely missed the fact the guy on the bike had an arm hanging on by a string because he said he was fine – shock not occurring to me). But this baby’s skin-tone was the colour of a middle-management suit; my inner warrior kicked in and I informed them I was taking them to hospital.

So I’m bundling the baby, mother, grandmother and I think her mother and grandmother into my car whilst a gang of paraletic girls throw chin-strap-mounted-dildos into my boot whilst screaming abuse at the grandfather who returned the grey baby.  

Geordie shore has nothing on this.

A supermarket job suddenly feels a bit more appealing in comparison. I leave it three more days to hang onto the hope of the Funny Women Awards comedy writing long-list. Surely there’s some commission-related karma due after my late night scripting, extensive mentoring and Louise Hay affirmations….? Oh and the fact that my personal life is up there with that of Sue Katona.

And there it goes – fifth rejection of the week.

Bugger.