It was a sad weekend.

It all started over a week ago when Herself decided she was tired of the Sunday Times and preferred Saturday's Irish Times.  I can't blame her as it was a mountain of newspaper, half of which she never read.  The only good thing about it as far as I was concerned was the Sudoku.

So that Sunday, I called into the Local Shop for the Sunday Times and told Yer Man that I wanted to cancel it and order Saturday's Irish Times instead.  Naturally confusion reigned.

Did I want the paper I just called in to collect as it was a Sunday Times?

I said I did and that I wanted to cancel it from next week and get the Irish Times on Saturday instead.

He said he didn't have the Irish Times as they had all been sold the day before.

I explained as patiently as I could.  That day I wanted the Sunday Times and it was to be the last one.  Starting from the following Saturday I wanted the Irish Times.

Did I want the Sunday Times as well?

I gave myself a metaphorical clap on the back for not hitting him.

Eventually I got through to him.

Did I want to collect the Irish Times next week on the Sunday?

I told him that if he didn't throw out my Saturday's Irish Times that I could potentially collect it the following day.  He looked as pleased as Punch.

I left the shop with my head spinning and was about to drive off when he came barreling out the shop door.  With all the confusion he had forgotten to give me my present.  I got a neat set of paint brushes [for decorating, not art], a paint roller and a 500 piece jig-saw.

I called down this weekend for the Irish Times.  My friend wasn't there.  It was his brother, and I have never seen two brothers less alike [except maybe for me and my brother].  My friend is short and jumpy and full of chatter, a bit like a Jack Russell. The Brother on the other hand is big and lumbering and rarely has a word to say, a bit like a Great Dane.  He handed my my paper without a word, and that was that.

When I left the shop I felt oddly flat.  A little bit of excitement has gone out of my life.

I think I might just leave the Irish Times next Saturday.

I can always collect it on Sunday?

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Changing days — 3 Comments

    • Some, like sacks of potatoes or carrots, or indoor bunting for birthday parties goes to the daughter.  Most of the rest I use.  Granted I didn't need a spare hand lantern a cool box but they'll come in handy sometime.  Herself uses the thermal mug and the Mickey Mouse neck cushion every day.  I haven't started on the jig-saw yet, but it's a nice picture.

  1. I use Sunday supplements for lighting coal fires. I pass on to a friend the Sunday 'magazine' of the Sunday Times or the Sunday Biz Post, whichever one I buy. Occasionally I just buy the Sunday Turd – to relish the crime and sex stories, written in simple Junior Cert sentences, and the balancing spiritual observations of the showbiz chaplain, Fr. Brian Darcy. God be with the simple days when there were no supplements (they're just excuses for advertising revenue anyway) and newspapers could be freely used at local fish and chip shops for wrapping cod-and-chips, sausages-and-chips and exotic curried chips. But the busybody health bullies at the EEC in Brussels and Strasbourg made it illegal to recycle newsprint in that wholesome way. Soon they'll be thinking of banning deep-fried cod too. It's time to oil the blunderbuss in the attic.

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