Carrier bags, cheap wine, and a ticking brain

Why do I feel the need to apologise for needing a carrier bag?

Now that the bags are hidden away in the Nook Of Shame behind the counter, one is forced to ask, in full view of everyone, for a carrier. And instead of just saying something succinct, such as "May I have a carrier please?", I always feel the need to quantify. "May I have a carrier, please? I only came out for a pint of milk, and look! A veritable feast laid out before us!"

They never congratulate me when I take my own shopping bags with me. And really, they ought to, because as well as being environmentally kind, they're quite beautiful. Pink with large black dots, black with little Russian dolls on them; I match my shopping bag to my outfit. And still, no-one ever commends me.




It's just occured to me that the booze on holiday possibly contained no alcohol at all. Each night I was chugging down gallons of wine, and yet I was still perfectly able to walk in almost perilously high heels at the end of each evening. If I'd drunk so much wine here in the UK, I'd be floating.



And when did I think of all these things? Why, at 6.00 this morning, of course. I floated only a tenth of the way out of sleep, and yet my brain, like an untrained puppy, leapt at the chance. "We're awake! We're awake! Let's go! What shall we think about? Infinity pools; is there a list online of all the world's infinity pools? Why wasn't I drunk on holiday? When will we catch the train to the country pile for Christmas? Why are carrier bags so much noisier than they used to be? Why do I feel ashamed when I have to ask for one? Whatever happened to those ubiquitous adverts about not switching lights on in the house if one smells gas?"

And so if you see Aunty today, be kind. I look fabulous, as ever; but behind my eyes you will glance a certain weariness, already, even though it's only 9.49.

Have a lovely day, darlings.

Aunty
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