I spent yesterday exhibiting a number of facets of old age.
Helpful old man -
A friend asked me if I could take her to the Big City Hospital for an outpatient’s appointment. No problem. Despite being overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place I managed to find the right department at the first attempt. I dropped my friend off and moved on to Morrisons, where I took advantage of their 4-for-3 offer and filled my bag with eight bottles of Duvel.
Short-sighted old man -
I couldn’t help thinking my bill was somewhat larger than it should have been. I looked at the receipt and discovered I had picked up a more expensive kind of Duvel than the one I wanted, which comes in a remarkably similar bottle…
Exasperated old man -
…at which point my phone rang. ‘There’s been a mistake. Someone has booked me in for the wrong test and it can’t be done today. I’m ready to be collected now.’ I explained I was in the middle of consumer hell and could be some time. Right. Take this slowly. First step - do they have any of the Duvel I want?
Helpless old man -
Back to the shelf. Aha! There are some lurking right at the back! I stood wondering how to get to them. A young woman, substantially shorter than me, saw my problem and offered her help - but of course she couldn’t reach them either. She began to pile boxes of Stella on top of each other. I tentatively put my foot on the empty bottom shelf to see if I could gain enough height. ‘DON’T DO THAT!’ she shouted. I jumped back in shock, let her climb her Stella tower and collect the four bottles on the shelf for me.
Confused old man -
Then - after queuing - customer services. I put my four new bottles with their receipt on one side and explained that they had nothing to do with the problem. I then unloaded the eight incorrect bottles. Only there weren’t. There were six, and two of the correct ones. Oh no, this is going to be so hard to explain…
‘You see, I bought eight of these by accident. But there are only six, two are the cheaper kind. But she charged me for eight of the expensive ones, so that’s what I need to be refunded for…’
‘No she hasn’t. Look, here on the receipt. Six of those and two of those.’ Idiot. I’d seen the expensive bottles on the receipt and in my bag and hadn’t checked any further.
Shrewd old man -
‘So you just need to be refunded for these eight’ she continued, tapping the items into her machine. I was about to remind her that two of the bottles had in fact been free under the 4-for-3 offer when my inner voice told me to keep my mouth shut. After all, no point in confusing the nice lady any more. I nodded enthusiastically and offered up my card.
Contented old man -
After collecting my friend and gratefully accepting her suggestion of coffee and cake somewhere (I chose The Neighbourhood in Leamington, a good excuse to pop upstairs to Seismic and order the new Charles Lloyd album) I got home and totted up my various receipts, purchases and refunds. As I suspected, five pounds to the good. Or, nearly three bottles of Duvel. I poured one of them and prepared to unleash my inner Fagen. I’ll crack that intro one day.
Boring old man -
This morning I decided to post, in step-by-step detail, everything I did yesterday. What could possibly be more interesting for everyone else? Wait a minute, I forgot my afternoon walk. It’s the same one I go on most days, which is up the drive, across the lane, turn left…