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When the instructions on your extra strength medicine say no caffeine obey them-

Day 8 of the jiggered kidney & Hollie takes a trip to Primark

A few nights before I had accidentally purchased a size 12-14 underwear set, still sealed in the container I queued hopefully to exchange it for my size. It was hot in the shop and I wore my woolly cardigan and an old woman who was gradually passing out onto my arm. Shade of face: beetroot.
There was one android on the customer service till and three bimbos loitering at the changing room desk. At the front a junkie hound was being served, returning goods to the tune of my annual income. The till girl moved slowly, slack jawed and spaced out, her pupils unfocused.

She bleeped a few barcodes through before stopping…looking…sighing…ringing the bell for assistance…then waiting…no explanation…just staring off into that middle distance between two people facing each other.
Meanwhile somewhere in the back of the store Satan had turned the heating up.
Another girl was finally dropped onto the adjacent till and began ringing through a purchase only to mess it up at the last second…stopped…looked…sighed and rang the bell for assistance. At this moment my FFS was audible mainly because I spat it through gritted teeth…another 10 minutes passed.
Finally, I was beckoned over by the vacant robotron on till one. I explained my situation to which she reeled off from her manual:
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
But it’s in the sealed container; I unfortunately picked up the wrong size!
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
I don’t want to return it I want to exchange it.
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
It’s not my size; I simply want my own size.
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
So what you are saying is I’ve just wasted my money?
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
To which I flipped out and so the sh*t fit began. I made to storm off then came back and snatched up my receipt as though it bared any significance. Then turned around and began to try and march out of the shop, Primark is not a place you can march out of. It’s a labyrinth of displays and pushchairs- so fuelled by my rage (and perhaps the fact I had broken the no caffeine rule, or that I am as my Mum reminds me a hell witch) I began tipping over the displays, pushing stacks of jumpers on the floor and kicking the socks off the wee hangers.
In short I trashed Primark, which as we all know looks like a jumble sale anyway, so my tantrum went unnoticed by security but I did hear one member of staff enquire as to what I was doing.
Then off I went stamping along Braehead Shopping Centre before baying to the afternoon sky out in the car park.

It had happened before over two years ago. I suppose that is a relatively recent amount of time but not short enough to remind me of the frustration. I refer to the galling process- nay the blood splattered battle of trying to park my car at a Glasgow Hospital. The first instance was when my friend was recovering from a traffic collision. There I sat in my vehicle following the other cars in an endless merry-go-round praying spaces would magically appear on the next turn- nope. Half an hour this played out for until there ahead of me was an empty space. My heart lifted, there was hope. But wait where is this guy in the small white car going, he has just entered the group from the ramp? Into my spot of course. At least he had the sense to get out, not look directly at me and break into a run until he reached the safety of the building. On that occasion I gave in turned my music up full blast and on reaching home called my friends house to let her answer machine take the abuse. She said listening to my hysteria helped her recovery, laughter is said to be the best medicine after all.
These feelings and memories had faded- until now. The sickening thing about this car park is once you have knocked down an elderly couple, rammed a barrier and got a space you then must pay for the privilege. The minimum the machine accepts to satisfy it’s hunger is a shiny gold piece. So there I was on lap eight of the pathetically small car park when up ahead of me two women get into their car, the precious seconds tick as they fumble with their seatbelts, the radio and their sunglasses. I begin to breathe deeply and rapidly. They move off. As I put the car into gear I look up the one way road to see a saloon drive with intensity towards me, I check the rear view mirror; a queue has formed offering no way back. The car braked abruptly, flipped into reverse and moved into the space. Theft! Blatant theft from a fat, balding, smoking git who doesn’t look up once at my hand gestures. Fortunately my window, opened due to the clammy July weather ensured I was heard, not before I had got onto the horn to make sure he understood I was about to pass comment. My teeth biting over my curled bottom lip produced a variety of ‘f’ words and phrases. At times like these I am glad there is a small voice inside who accuses me of being irrational, otherwise I’m sure I would have ragged my car onto his roof. As is, I’m a street away from the hospital, the parking is free, and I’ve had time to calm down, plot my revenge and choose a slightly less antagonistic tone of voice when talking to my newly operated sister.