Quiet Musings: Hope Springs Eternal In Sainsbury's car Park

Hope Springs Eternal in Sainsbury's car park

Three years a go I saw the movie 'A Series of Unfortunate Events.' I loved it and went out immediately to buy Lemony Snicket's books which I inhaled over a few nights. I doted on the redoubtable orphans: Klaus, (an inventor) Violet (a lateral thinker) and Sonny (a biter) in equal measure but I wonder now if my fascination was driven by a Cassandrian premonition that soon a series of unfortunate events would require me to invest in buying a hair ribbon, tying up my hair in a braid and hoping I could come up with "a plan."

While I bob up and down on Lake Lachrymose it is comforting to see I am not alone. Dear friends, total strangers and even my bank manager doggy paddle beside me endeavoring to develop skills that even the Circ de Soleil have not acquired. Juggling bills, mortgage repayments while clinging to punctured water wings and wearing wan smiles causes one to gulp on saline soup more times than is good for the digestion.

I am holding onto my house by my somewhat crumbling teeth and see it balanced no less precariously than the house owed by the Realtor phobic, grammatically correct Baudelaire Aunt. I too am surviving on spaghetti puttanesca; so far not constructed of rat's tails and past its sell by tuna. But there is only so much one can do with half a carrot and a packet of frozen peas chipped from a bloke of ice in the back of the freezer!

My wise hair ribbon investment has so far not lead to the formation of a grand idea but hold that thought…perhaps it has. Perhaps some enlightened editor will embrace this piece like a long lost child and offer me a penny and a candle stub in return for my creative juices. I was inspired to write this in Sainsbury's car park having returned to my borrowed car foodless in Gaza; my debit card having been refused for the umpteenth time in two weeks. I seem to be existing in some time warp where the promise of money due to arrive in my account never aligns with said money actually landing in my account. The sweet girl at the check out assured me I was not alone; mine was the 25^th refused card that morning….onward and upward I always say.

The sun is shining on a glistening cars and a large red bus has just deposited merry shoppers, clutching empty re-cycled bags, onto the pavement. I hope they have better luck than I had in the hallowed aisles. Once upon a time I had a Gold American Express card, day time and evening scent, moisturizers to suit the moods of my aging skin and the odd bottle of 'everyday' champagne in the fridge. Now I service a 150 pound overdraft, dear God at 20 pounds a week. My parchment skin is soothed by E 45 bought in bulk; soon I will move onto Q 20, I'm sure I remember an old tin lurking at the bottom of the tool box. Last month I squeezed the last vapors of Diorissimo onto the ether and the scent on my skin is now the smell of fear. Ah ha….I spy three jolly shoppers ambling towards the bus stop clutching bulging bags, good on them. I enjoy seeing such simple success lived before my eyes. It gives me hope.
It's time to go home now and transpose this missive, written on the back of two envelopes containing unpaid bills, onto my computer; that is provided, the electricity has not been cut of in my absence.
Baudelaire's I salute you.