Suffolk 2022

Day 1

Mel is proper poorly sick.  How do I know this?  Because she doesn’t want to come to Tesco’s.  Call the doctor, the cavalry, the government, anyone as this is definitely very serious.

I was woken up at 4am by a croaky Mel asking where the Tyrozets are.  Before I continue, let me explain about Tyrozets.  They are the world’s most amazing tablet for a sore throat.  If you have razor blades digging into your throat and can no longer swallow, the only thing that will sort it out are Tyrozets.  You don’t chew them but instead just suck and the numbing feeling spreads throughout your mouth. 

But you cannot buy them anymore as the powers that be, have taken them off the market as they had antibiotics in, and it is claimed that continued use means antibiotics were becoming less effective.  What rubbish.  I think the real reason is that the makers of Strepsils weren’t making any money.  Strepsils just don’t work.  Fortunately, despite not being able to buy them anymore, I still have a couple of little tubes of the contraband tablets hidden around the house.  I have considered selling them on the black market as I would make a fortune but then I wouldn’t have any to mend Mel’s throat.

But back to the story.  Mel wakes up asking for Tyrozets and I try to go back to sleep but can’t so in a moment of madness decide it might be a good idea to go to Tesco’s and buy the food to take away with us.  I announced this to Mel and naturally assumed she would want to come with me – after all, everyone knows Mel loves shopping.  But she doesn’t.  all she says is ‘please can you buy me some fudge’.

Her state of mind worries me, and I contemplate finding a thermometer but realise we probably don’t have one and so, in my state of shock, simply grab a quick cuppa, pull some clothes on an kiss Mel goodbye – hoping the normal version will be in bed when I get back.

As my car is at work, I jump into Mel’s little Skoda and head off in the dark.  Her car is like a go cart.  You can wang around corners and though it isn’t the fastest, it is very nippy and I soon arrive at Tesco’s. It is just after 5am.  The signs look good; the car park isn’t too busy and I am hopeful that the experience isn’t going to be too traumatic.  I grab some bags from the boot, get a trolley and head in.

And then I remember why I don’t do the shopping.  It appears that Tesco’s is no longer a shop selling groceries and instead it must now be concentrating on selling big cages and funny trolley things with drawers which are pushed by people who look about 12 years old.  Christmas music is playing relentlessly overhead, and I have to shut my eyes and breathe before opening them again, hoping I was still dreaming.

Alas I was not and I quickly realise that the challenges (and obstacles) of this mornings trial would not be customers, as instead I find myself faced with home shoppers and shelf stackers. 

I am sure they watch me walk in and start discussing tactics about making my ordeal even worse – and they succeed.  Wherever I am there are 3 of them – either picking something off the shelf I am trying to get to or putting something on the shelf I am trying to get to.  Their cages and/or trolleys are everywhere and every aisle is an obstacle course with people and equipment to be manoeuvred around.  It is like a reality tv show which dictates that if I forget something I have to start at the beginning again.  And then add in legitimate customers.  With every minute that passes, more of the public enter the competition with their sole aim of preventing me from finishing.  It is a close-run thing but eventually I can see the finish line and head for the self-scan tills.

For once, they are quiet, but typically I have the normal hassle of finding a member of staff to remove the security tag off a joint of lamb (what is the world coming to?).  I huff loudly and obviously and wave my arms around trying to get noticed.  Eventually a lady in an obscenely jolly Christmas jumper bounces up to me to offer help.  But why does she have to talk to me?  Hasn’t she attended the training course which explains that if a customer chooses to scan their purchases, this means that they don’t want to make inane conversation with a stranger.  It means they want to be left alone.  Clearly, she hasn’t and appears to ignore my monosyllabic grunts in response.

I manage to escape and head for the car only to find I’m in the middle of a tsunami and I quickly stand in a deep puddle and get wet socks.  My festive spirit which if wasn’t obvious before, vanished completely.

I head home hoping my wounded Melonpip is feeling better and ready for a jaunt to Suffolk today.  Mel is never sick which makes it a bit worrying but when I get home, she quickly gets out of bed and seems a bit brighter.  The wonders of Tyrozets.

The rest of the day is pretty standard for day one of our holidays:

• • We pack too much stuff

• • I moan because we will be late.

• • I complain about the horrendous weather.

• • We take an unplanned detour via Ipswich and sit in Christmas traffic.

• • But we arrive safely as usual.

The hardest part of arriving today is being told (and given a map) what our pitch number is and where it is but then not putting numbers on the pitches.  I sit in Ethel watching Mel wander up and down trying to work out which is ours.  In the end, we ask a neighbour.

We set up and put the kettle on, all the while being nosy about the 2 women in a caravan a few pitches up.  Disgusting!!