Note From Lapland

Seriously It was Huge

By Jo Beaufoix

As lovely Heather is winging her way to sunny Britain, I’ve been lucky enough to be asked to guest post for her, which is kind of cool as she’s a bit fab. I however, am less fab, as even though I meant to be all organised and gave myself the whole of today (Tuesday) to write this post, I did not have a contingency plan should something occur, for example a 9 year old off school with a weirdly named eye problem. So I have spent the day playing Monopoly. I kid you not. Four looooong hours sat on the floor beside Miss E while I ply her with warm teabags to use as compresses on her little lumpy face. It did however give me time to ponder on a post, and I have decided to share with you a little secret…

It’s 9.15am. I have dropped Misses E and M off at school and am grabbing a few bits – milk, bread, huge bottle of red wine – before I meet my sister-in-law in the cafe for toast and a cuppa. It’s always busy at this time so there’s a bit of a queue building behind me. I eagerly run my goodies over the scanner, getting the usual strange kick out of the little ‘bip’ noise it makes, then I place them dreamily into the recycled bag I have for once remembered.

My eyes take in the sunlit noticeboard, holding promises of ‘Nearly New Leather Sofas’ and a ‘Double Mattress (no stains)’. The smell of latte wafts enticingly beneath my nose. Then the air is punctuated by the sound of breaking glass and my legs are punctuated with pretty much a whole bottle of Merlot.

Bugger.

They call the cleaner. He doesn’t start till 10am. I nudge a few of the larger shards out of the path of my fellow shoppers while apologising profusely. The staff are really lovely, and fetch me another bottle of wine, but inside I know they must be cursing me. Behind their smiles they must be wishing me all manner of proportionate ills such as a splinter, a paper cut or being bit on the bottom by a tiny but very sharp toothed stoat.

Rosy of cheek and purple 0f foot I hunt out my SIL and dump my bags at her table. I need to wash my legs. I decide on the Disabled Toilet as the sink is lower and there is more room to get cleaned up. I open the door, and oh joy, I am greeted by a huge great big enormous puddle of urine. Seriously, it is the biggest wee I have ever seen. I’m talking donkey sized, and that donkey didn’t even attempt to hit the target. So, having left an enormous river of red spread in between all four of the Self-Service tills, I am now going to have to report another huge great ocean of liquid flooding the facilities. AND the cleaner still doesn’t start till 10.00am.

Arghhhhhhhhhh.

I almost don’t do it. I let the door shut. I walk away. But then I have this image of a desperate-to-pee, wheelchair bound old lady being faced with that monstrous sea of human waste and I have to do the right thing.

Shoulders slumped, head down, stinking of alcohol, I wait at the Cigarette Kiosk. As I tell my story I’m consciously trying to make that ‘I’m just being a good citizen and reporting this but it wasn’t me that did it’ face, but part of me knows it’s hopeless.

So my secret? Well, in my local Schmesco, it is quite probable that I am known as ‘The Drunken, Bottle Smashing, Enormous Donkey Wee Woman’. And I bet that cleaner hates me.

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Jo Beaufoix, Mum, writer and scatterbrain.  Loves chocolate, small fluffy things and David Tennant.  Would quite like to own a donkey.