A Range of things

I remember the good old days when people took their kids to the supermarket to abuse them. No matter whether it was Sainsburys or Tesco, you could be sure there would be women screaming at their offspring who were bawling in the aisles and hanging out of trolleys. It was comforting to possess that smugness that comes from having left one’s children elsewhere whilst you dashed round in mock disgust; knowing full well you’d get your own back on your own horrid offspring later with half a pound of pig’s liver, an onion and
 something that passed for mashed potato.

I went to the Range this evening to buy a photograph frame. The Range is a large store that can’t make up its mind what it wants to sell: something for the garden; something for the home; some nice things for those interested in handicrafts; some nasty looking food. Cheap and cheerful. Well, not so cheerful. It was like Armageddon in there; shortly after the four horsemen of the apocalypse had passed through on their way to neighbouring Matalan.

You can walk into some shops to be greeted by music or intercom calls relaying exciting news of the latest bargains. You walk into the Range and immediately feel lost in an NSPPC advert. The sound of children weeping envelops you. I look around to ascertain whether there is an obvious reason for such communal distress; a large dysfunctional family who have said ‘no’ to some joint childlike request perhaps; an unpleasant Bill Sikes type who has just beaten up his sons and daughters; the collapse of all the sweet-bearing shelves. But, no: this incessant screaming, screeching and wailing doesn’t emanate from a single source. Every child in this god-forsaken place has its own agenda. No-one is happy. Well, that’s extra-curricula activities for you.

Speaking of which, I escaped from work this morning to run a writing workshop for the Bournemouth Festival of Words in a local library. There were ten participants, two BFoW representatives and a photographer. We were cocooned amongst the book-shelves with plenty of room for the writers to break out and …well, write. The received comments were encouraging: excellent, instructive, inspiring. After that, I returned to work where a student told me I was fantastic. The day was progressing well. Then I spoke on the phone to a woman I’ve never met who informed me I was pretentious. It only takes one person to ruin the day. Bad move on my part to think The Range would make me feel better.

I went swimming and buried my head under water for thirty four lengths. That works!