Bank Holiday

Ahhhh...the great British Bank Holiday when Brits all go en masse to the shopping centres and DIY stores. Well, not all, because Scotland are more in line with Canada and had a day off for Queen Victoria's birthday last week.

We didn't go to a DIY shop but .... we had a little plumbing accident this morning. The hot water pipes sprung a leak and Austen had to call in a plumber, yep, at Bank Holiday rates. In fairness, the man did ask if we could wait until tomorrow when it would be cheaper, but no, Austen was adamant that we needed to use water in the house today. It could certainly have been worse, it could have happened yesterday when we were getting ready for the Christening, or worse still, when Sue was here on her own with the kids.

By the time the plumber arrived, Kevin had at least discovered the problem, so time was saved on diagnosis.

There is a waterfront development not far from here called Gunwharf Quays and we decided to go and look around the shops there, as did everyone else in the South East of England. The place was heaving. We were welcomed by heavy, tribal drumbeat, a group of dancers were proceeding along the waterfront, sounded more interesting than it turned out to be.

Gunwharf, even more than anywhere else in the city, is a meeting of the different elements in Pompey. There are the chavs, oh my goodness yes, but there are also the hoorays, most evident in Ralph Lauren. Now, the two fragrances I use are Ralph Lauren, but their clothing does not please me. In other clothes shops, the stock seems to change frequently, in Ralph Lauren, I swear the things they sell are the same year in, year out. Bit like their clientele.

In the central square some sea cadets were performing a hornpipe, not sure why, but it seems that some yacht race was leaving Portsmouth around now.

Although I have whined about restaurant and bar service in BC being too intrusive, I generally find shop staff to be polite there. In Boots in Gunwharf, one cashier was standing at the till moaning about the shop,
'I hate it here, I've had enough of bloody Boots, I don't want to be here...' yep, got that love.

We moseyed back, and needed to buy a few items at one of the small supermarkets. Co-op didn't have any Camembert, so I volunteered to go back to Tesco. There was a long, winding queue to pay. After my self-inflicted embarrassment of the previous day, I was interested in the loud soliloquy of one young woman in the line. It went on in a continuous stream with no break for breath.
'AND, she's got this bloke and he come down wiv this car, no MOT, no licence, they goes off to Wales, never told no-one, me, I'm loik am I bovvered? But she proper stitched moi uncle up, but yeah, she wuz well aht of awduh, got one contrac phone, never paid the bills, but she loik, was livin at my uncle's 'owse so then, right, she gets anover and loik, she never paid the bill neiver and then loik, the bailiffs was rahnd and they was loik, taking the telly and chairs an stuff unless moi uncle can come up wiv seven hundrid pahnds an 'e sez, oi ain't got that kinda money, anyway, the next thing...'
Damn, seemd like the queue moved too quickly, it was like a live soap opera. You can't make that stuff up. Oh hang on, yes, they do, and they get paid big bucks for it. That woman, I guess that was her life, lived large and shouted for all the world to hear in Tesco.