In our very large local Supermarket this morning for weekly foray for food, with my Mum. I am trying not to make eye contact with Mrs Jenkins, one of my old interior design customers. "Lovely old girl," I tell Mum "but always wants to talk to me about the problems with her swags and tails, or not being able to find fabric for cushions to go in her dog's four poster."
I head Mrs Jenkins off at the pass between the freezer section and choccie biccie's, where she stocks up as if she's expecting a war. Mum and I are lurking in the safe haven of the cheese and bacon aisle when we notice people appearing with trolleys, from every direction, all headed for the same place. As we get closer we see that the staff are unloading a mountain of marked down food into a chiller cabinet. They might as well be throwing a side of beef into shark infested waters. There's a lot of noise, jostling, grabbing and something that looks like a Rugby scrum.
When we're able to get close, three minutes later, it's been picked clean. Or almost. There's one remaining "Giant cream muffin."
"It looks like it's fallen from the top of a ten storey building." Mum says.
"Great," I say grabbing it and stuffing it in the trolley, "The Husband will definitely think it's been home made."
Then there's a tap on my shoulder.
"I'm so glad I caught you," Mrs Jenkins beams, "I need some advice on my garage."
"Garage?" Mum and I say in unison.
"Yes, do you remember it from when you last came to the house, it's to the left of the conservatory?"
I haven't got time to say, "I don't, because it's been seven years."
"What colour should I paint it?" She says, taking a Farrow and Ball colour chart out of her hand bag...
Suddenly I remember why I love writing so much and need to get back to work on the novel and hide away in Southern Ireland....