Such emotional upheaval for a regular old Wednesday

Today I walked about 4 miles round trip to go pick up my watch. I was told by the jeweller that the battery was not the problem, but they replaced the band anyway, and that I should take it to Debenham's down the road, which I mistakenly heard as Deb and M's until I saw the giant sign for it. I must have looked like death approaching Debenham's watch repair counter, because not only had I walked two miles to get there, but I was also trying not to think about the possibility that my beloved Beatles watch had died forever or would be terribly expensive to repair. The woman at the counter took it and told me to return in 15 minutes for an estimate, 15 minutes which I spent eyeing the watch repair people suspiciously through a display of £100 handbags. You would have thought I had handed my newborn to a bunch of crack addicts. When I emerged from the shadows to ask what was up, the woman brought me my watch and I braced myself for the bad news. She told me, to my surprise, that the battery WAS the problem, they had replaced it for me, and I now owed them £9. Despite having just paid three more pounds than I would have had to if good old H Samuel had given me a proper prognosis, my expression must have brightened about ten shades because after I had put the watch back on, the woman said, "You look so happy!" It's my Beatles watch, what can I say? (Besides the fact that I am now able to return to my homeostatic level of anxiety about being on time, that is.)

While walking home from my watch-related adventures, the watch-homecoming high was wearing off and I was too exhausted to realize I was walking straight into two guys who were obviously trying to sell me something.

"Can I ask you a question about your hair?" he inquired. I decided to play along. He continued. "Where do you get it cut?" Ha, ever hear of the Sears Hair Studio? I must sound like a walking commercial for Sears but haircuts and watch repairs are seriously the only two services I rely on it for. He asked me how much I paid, and I said "About twenty bucks." Then he tried to sell me a £500 value on hairstyling of some variety for "only 50 quid!" Um, as that translates to about $100, and given what I have told you so far, does that sound like something I would be interested in? As a last resort, he asked me if I went to nightclubs and I held back the temptation to laugh in his face, because really, maybe I don't look like a total hermit with no rhythym or desire to grind against sweaty, drunk men. At this point he knew he had lost and submitted with an outstretched hand. I shook it, checked to make sure no co-conspirator had somehow snatched my wallet, and left.

posted by limeywannabe @ 9:48 PM