Last night I ventured into Headingley for a pre-arranged rendezvous with my former travelling companion Richard to reminisce about old times and collect a batch of sketches that we did on our travels 32 years ago – these drawings now represent the second oldest artwork of mine that I own, the oldest being a trademark cartoon on Rodney’s school exercise book.
So I pop into the petrol filling station first to top up the tank and its one of those petrol stations that has expanded recently so that it now has what would have reasonably been called a supermarket in the 1970s attached to it, a person could easily do their weeks shopping in there when paying for their petrol.
And so thats what the silly bastards do.
There are twelve pumps on the forecourt, all were occupied so I waited behind one where the person wasn’t to be seen and so was reasonably assumed to be in the shop waiting to pay for their petrol.
And I waited, and I waited, and I waited.
And no-one was coming out of the shop.
After nearly eight minutes a solitary woman strolled casually out of the shop with three bags of shopping in hand, loaded them into the car that she’d left sitting occupying one of the pumps and drove off seemingly oblivious of the eleven other cars waiting behind the cars of eleven other people who had been stood behind her, the daft shopping cow, at the single checkout.
But it wasn’t over, because this is a student area the checkout queue included a dozen or so punters who didn’t have cars, and of course the car owners who’s cars were now blocking every pump had to wait for them to be served too, and then to cap it all the car in front of mine was the last one to be claimed by another woman who came out with two bags of shopping.
Women – fill your cars up with petrol at the petrol station – do your shopping at a fookin supermarket.
I blame Barbara Castle, until she became Minister for Transport no women held driving licences in this country.