I’m angry. There’s only really one day of the week that i’m guaranteed to experience pure rage. That day is a Sunday.

“But why a Sunday?” I hear you ask. (Ok, no one’s asking, you all know me so you know this anyway, but indulge me, please.) Wellllll Sunday is the one day a week I work. In a supermarket. With the public. And a select few souless beings. Most of the time I enjoy my job, I can’t lie. But it’s still a job, with people, and people annoy the fuck out of me.

So, what was so special about today that made me start writing this minutes after getting home? Oh, I dunno, EVERYTHING maybe? Arrived at 6.56am. Was unable to swipe in. And I was on time too. The rarity.

My job is basically inventory *yawn* but today, I had to do... REDUCTIONS. The horror. People are vultures. It’s amazing what almost-out-of-date shit people will buy. And keep in their freezers for God knows how long. Next to cherished wedding cake and hooker heads. To make this whole reduced sticker sticking situation worse, I sliced my finger open on a value pack of ham.

BREAK TIME. After my delicious and subsidised lunch (only one of those adjectives is accurate), I was informed I would be scanning the waste. I want to describe to you what the waste dungeon - sorry, room - looks like, but it’s not just a one sense assault, and I would be here all day. Essentially, it’s a room full of rotting meat, eggs, milk, yoghurts, fruit and veg. I boak easy and I boaked hard. I touched things. I smelled things. I got things on me. I was in my own personal putrefying pit.

Dear sweet 4pm. Home time. Text from my mum “At the checkout, be round in 5”. Didn’t wanna hang around at the back of work, so I thought I would be clever and just go meet her at the car. I AM NOT CLEVER.

So I’m about 25 yards from her car when it starts to reverse out of the space. I quicken my pace. She continues to drive. I shout. “MUM! STOP!” She keeps driving. 

[Google 'Rebecca Gayheart car' if you don't get this]

I’m running now. I’m chasing her. Waving my arms around, shouting a combination of “mum/stop/please/fucksake”. She doesn’t stop. I’m still running. I notice a man leaning on his van that she’s about to pass and I plead for help “STOP THAT WOMAN!” He does nothing. She’s gone. I’m done. Not before throwing a quick “thanks for your help SIR” at unhelpful man.

I wonder if it looked like the worlds worst shoplifter apprehension or just another mental employee going absolutely bananas in the car park. I also wonder if I will be facing a disciplinary, I mean I did say “fuck” a lot. But I think what I wonder the most, is how the hell my mother doesn’t kill people with her car every.single.day. I was chasing her, waving my arms, shouting... How did she not notice me? Seriously?