A Whinge

Today I thought I would have a whinge, not that I normally do (liar), but then why not, I am old I am entitled.

I normally wake at about 4.30am to get to work for 6.00am. I don’t like to do this but I have to work and that is the time I have been told I have to start.

So I try to get everything done at night before the morning so I have as little to do as possible, so tonight I went for some Petrol or Gas or whatever it is you want to call it.

We have about 500 yards from us a gas or petrol station which is open 24 hours. Now to say they are slow at serving you is an understatement, all I want to do is get the Gas/Petrol, and bugger off. I have been there at 5.30 in the morning, there is always a queue. 2 bloody cars to serve and you have to wait, so bloody slow if I tossed a ball to my pet tortoise he would have brought it back before I got to the till. I have seen paint dry quicker.

Tonight was no exception. There was when I pulled into the place 3 cars. I thought great, no waiting, pulled straight to a pump, put in my gas/petrol, pulled out my cash
(cash mind you). There were three people in the queue in front of me.

Now who the bloody hell pays with a cheque nowadays? Well you bet my bloody luck, if there is someone, I will be behind them. So you get the picture, they are slow and the old dear in front of me is paying by cheque. I have the cash in my hand and all I want to do is go home.

So I wait AND WAIT AND WAIT. She can’t see, bless her (what the hell is she doing behind the wheel of a car) and struggles to sign the cheque. The teller is as slow as she is and he double checks her every spelling. By this time I am getting very agitated and the once crisp notes have turned to shredded bits of toilet paper and are falling to bits in my hand.
I have grown a beard and my life is slipping away, and I’m going to flat line any minute.

“I hope she doesn’t ask for anything else”, I think.
I hope I don’t need to go to the toilet. I wonder what God is doing today, could he make them go just a bit quicker. Suddenly my daydreaming is jolted by movement. She’s moving, she is going to leave the till. I am next, I AM NEXT. Nope, not my luck. She turns back to him, “Could I have a receipt please?”

My heart sank. I will go into a coma soon, the car will run out of road tax before I leave here, they will have changed the bloody currency before I get to the till.

Then it happens. I’m next. I give him my £30, say pump one thank you, and leave.

It took 5 bloody seconds.