-
New washer-dryer machine. It’s got Bluetooth, as things simply have to these days, and makes a whining noise redolent of a supercharged engine. The old one was definitely repairable, but I wasn’t going to talk the landlord out of slightly wastefully buying a replacement that doesn’t vibrate alarmingly like the old one did. (By the way, fashion fans, the metal retaining band of a washing machine door seal could be worn as a slightly uncomfortable necklace.)
-
Sunday evening, walked from Tesco Express to Tesco Express in search of athelete’s foot cream. Only certain branches stock it, and it doesn’t correspond to the size of the shop, so it must be to do with the state of the feet who live near each one.
(When something’s out of stock, they put an apologetic label over the price label – sometimes indicating when the next delivery is due, but usually not, either way it’s stupid, something something the national obsession with apologising. But then they forget to remove the apology when they restock, so you’ve got to interfere with the shelf edge to reveal the price of yoghurt these days. Since this is the internet, I must be clear that this isn’t a complaint about the forgetfulness of the poor staff, it’s just about the policies laid down by the besuited creeps in Tesco HQ.)
-
Lucy Beaumont (h).
-
🎦 American Fiction. Good!
-
20-ish hours in North England for a thing. £7.95 for a pint, and why not.
There’s a direct, slow train, but in theory it’s quicker to take three different trains. So I tested the theory, and in practice the second train was delayed so I missed the third train, although the disembodied lady robot voice was going haywire and announced, many miles from Doncaster, that we were already approaching Doncaster – so I briefly, gullibly believed that the train driver’s fast driving meant I wouldn’t miss the third train after all, oh what a rollercoaster of emotions.