Grumpy Old Woman

Last night for dinner I had baked potato, pickled beetroot and stewed rhubarb. I think it was when I was doing the screwed-up face routine as I ate the rhubarb that I said to myself, 'Must go to the shops tomorrow.'

Normally I shop in Sainsburys but they're closed for four days for a re-vamp. In other words, they've closed just to upset me twice over. First time: making me go to Tesco's. Second time: I won't be able to find anything when they re-open. (I wonder if they're planning another series of Grumpy Old Women; I could audition.)

So there I am filling the car with petrol while being pelted with rain and blasted with wind, and I glance over at the car just leaving. It's driven by a woman and she's alone. And she looks as if she just stepped out of Vogue. Even with an extra-special effort I don't look like that even when I've just stepped out of the house; I certainly don't look like it now with my red nose and my hair looking as if I've been dragged, not through a hedge but, through a jungle, feet first. How do they do it, these women? As the King of Siam would have said - if he'd been scripted by Rodgers and Hammerstein, 'It is a puzzlement.'

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We had a letter in work today. It said they were looking for people with 'a warm heart, a large teapot and a downstairs toilet'.

Also in work, Alun told me that the Welsh for microwave oven is popty ping. That's one of the better Welsh translations.