Call me a tart…

I don't care!

In days of yore, I used to be anyone's for 

a free carrierbag… 

Not anymore… 

I've gone distinctly upmarket.

The offer of a free bottle of champagne

got my pulse racing.

Call me a champagne socialist tart…

I don't care!

Idly I flirted with the idea as January

slipped by.

The thing that stopped me was the thought of

getting to grips with ordering groceries on-line.

Call me an idle champagne swilling socialist tart…

I don't care!

Events overtook me when due to

me being off the road and Ted having

this awful bug, supplies were needed.

Suddenly the idea grew from a daydream to

an okay let's run with this necessity.

I chose my slot, dithered over the list and 

surprisingly found it harder to spend than when

I diva-like grace Waitrose with my presence.

Call me a champagne quaffing diva…

I don't care!

Because we're hard to find, I put a chatty

note with name and phone number on the order.

Sat back and waited for the freebie…

Oh and the groceries to arrive.

Never one of the most patient people,

ten minutes into our one hour slot my foot was tapping.

One hour and five minutes later, the call came through…

I picked up the phone with the immortal words…

'Are you lost?'

With very precise instructions I talked him in.

As I was just trotting off with ping-pong bats in hand

to do a little light traffic calming.

(think Easi-jetting in to Crudsville airport)

Ted weakly asked where the driver was, to which I replied the Green Cross Inn.

As the words issued out of my rosebud lips a horrible thought entered my mind.

"I've got the pubs muddled up and have sent him the completely wrong way!' 

Racing down the track I saw him pass by.

Hareing up the hill, I stopped as I saw him 

shoe-horning around the chicane.

Out of puff, I decided to wait on the corner by the pond.

'What are you doing here Linda?'

a kindly neighbour enquired.

'Looking for trade, although in this sleepy village

 I'm not going to make much money, lets face it!'

Conveniently forgetting the fact, I'm a little old for this game.

At last down the hill the poor chap came,

to be met with the sight of a mad woman waving her arms around,

like one of those ghastly windmills that are blighting

the landscape. Rubber on tarmac he screeched to a halt.

After much pointing, gesticulating even, he eventually landed.

Ted risen from his sickbed, sorted him out only to

discover we had taken delivery of a neighbour's order!

Back out we go, get our order, then at last we can relax.

Signing the order, Silas Marner-like coins fell from my hand into his.

'You don't have to!' he said

'Oh I do, I do!  

Call it guilt, for me being a daft tart sending you the wrong way!'

Call me an idle champagne-quaffing daft tart…

I don't care!

However a tiny bit of me thinks you might be onto

something, not that I'd ever admit it, mind!