Posts by Kelly Jackson:
Today, I thought I would let my state of being jobless be a help instead of a hinder, and I offered to run some ‘simple’ errands for my Nan.
(Yes, I am jobless, no I am not claiming benefits, so if you would like to send me some money for no reason what so ever, my paypal email is Kelly.email@example.com … thanks)
The task was menial, and something thousands or pensioners carry out every week.
Go to the Post Office, get pension, put it in bank. I repeated it to myself like a mantra. This was today’s motivation. Go to Post Office, get pension, put it in bank.
I usually try to avoid the Post Office at all costs, usually by inventing wild excuses why I can’t go in there and getting my Mum to send parcels for me. ”But Mum, last time I went in there, I called the lady a slag, I really shouldn’t go back for a while”
”Mum, the Post Office smell plays up my Asthma. And it makes me itch.”
Seeing as I didn’t have anything better to do today, I didn’t even mind that when I took my ticket it was number 42, and we were currently on 22. I can’t remember when the Post Office reverted to the Argos way of doing things, but I should imagine it was around 2005 when Royal Mail stopped them being the monopoly on British Post because the government realised they are shit.
One of the reasons I enjoy Basildon so much, is due to the sights you see just going about life. While standing in the queue, I witnessed a man with long blonde hair in denim cut off shorts.
I thought ‘HOLY CRAP its Hulk Hogan’ until reason hit me and I thought ‘don’t be stupid Kelly……Hulk Hogan isn’t old enough to collect his pension’. My Mum advised me this short wearing character was quite a ‘face’ and he wears said shorts come rain or shine, snow or heat wave. Good luck to him, if that’s what he believes in. I personally don’t get Scientology but there’s plenty of people who DO believe that we are all re-incarnations of dead aliens. Each to their own.
After the fairly painless experience in the Post Office (which I’m still in shock about) all I had to do was go into Natwest and pay some money in. I had a slip, pre written out by Nan, because even at the age of 25 she clearly doesn’t trust me with a biro.
My Mum says ‘Don’t go to the machine, it’s complicated’ and I think to myself ‘complicated for you love because you don’t even know how to plug in a DVD player, but I, a woman of the 21st century will surely be able to navigate a self service paying in machine. After all, look at how well I do with the self service in supermarkets and Smiths’ (by the way how cheeky is it that the self service in WH Smith STILL asks you if you want chocolate? if I wanted chocolate I’d go to Thornton’s or the Poundshop mate).
The first mistake I made, was believing I didn’t need any help. The lady in Natwest bordered on offending me asking if I needed help right after a 90 year old man had told her no. No, I don’t need help. You put the slip and the money in and sod off. It’s not hard is it.
The second mistake I made, was wrongly assuming you put the notes in one by one. You don’t. I didn’t want to put £20 in I wanted to put £50 in. Easy enough, cancel the transaction and start again, I’ve got all day.
Only problem is after cancelling the transaction, the machine gave me a nice bold message YOU WILL NOT GET YOUR SLIP BACK. What, wait, why wont I get my slip back? Where has my slip gone?
Has it gone for a little trip involving flying over the Bermuda triangle?
Has it gone to take pictures of the storm on the coast and not returned?
Has it taken advantage of the recent immigration laws in reverse and moved to Bulgaria?
Panic over. Lets just queue up and get my slip back.
Oh no, thank god. My slip is CLEARLY still in the machine. I get a little receipt with the transaction ID. Due to the fact my slip is CLEARLY in the machine I mistakenly think it will be easy enough to still continue my transaction. I do appreciate it may be hard but not impossible, so I put on my best fake charm (learned from recruitment), saunter over to the desk and my exchange goes like the following:
”Hi (looks at name badge) Debbie, I wonder if you can, I don’t have my Nan’s bank card, and the machine has just eaten the slip but given me this receipt. She can’t get out at the moment so I’m helping her and really need to get this money in”
Debbie: ”Sorry cant help you”
Short and sweet Debbie I like your style.
So the long and short of it is, I went to town, and only managed to complete 50% of a task that most people 65 and over do on a weekly basis without any trouble at all.
I fancied a sunbed today, new year, new me and all that.
Now I don’t know about you, but I find the entire experience of a sunbed extremely stressful.
For a start, being fair (and when I say fair I mean ‘white as a fucking sheet’), the sunbed lady, who has now known me for approximately 6 years looks me up and down like a nodding dog.
Sometimes, she even throws in a ‘oooh I don’t think you should do 8 love, when was the last time you had one?’
‘It was yesterday, and I’m sorry if I dont look like Madge from Benidorm but thats just the way it is’.
I also never enjoy the ‘have you got cream?’ interrogation. No, I haven’t got cream, no I dont want cream. I’m far from a cheapskate ladies and gentleman but to pay £5 for a sachet of what, in effect, does the same job as poundhsop cocoa butter, makes about as much sense as Dappy being in ‘celebrity’ Big Brother.
I love the way the sunbed sales woman always tuts ‘oooh you’ll never get a colour’. No, no I wont. Laying inbetween 12 1000 watt bulbs for 8 minutes will have absolutly no effect on me what so ever will it?
Once you do pass the gatekeeper, you assume you can relax, have a sunbed, and sod off. But still so so many obstacles to over come.
Now I’m a quick undresser. I’m a bloody quick undresser (see ‘stripper on ice’). But give me that little red ‘countdown timer’ and I’m slower than an 89 year old check out woman.
It reminds me of the NASA shuttle launch count down, and in turn, I faff, fall, get things caught and usually have seconds to spare (what DOES actually happen if you take longer than the allocated 5 minutes to get dressed?).
And then the finale. You FINALLY get on the sunbed, and I dont know about you, but EVERY SINGLE NOISE the sunbed makes symbolizes the fact it is going to explode, engulf you in a ball of flames and kill you slowly.
I can hear you all asking me why i dont don’t use fake tan. Thats another story…..
Just a gentle remider (around as gentle as the Incredible Hulk rocking you to sleep), the ultimate aim for this blog is to raise money for Cancer Research.
So please give, even if it’s only a pound. Because lets face it if you met me you would want to buy me a drink anyway (to get rid of me)
Kelly Jackson is fundraising for Cancer Research UK
When signing up for Cancer Research’s Dryathlon, I assumed that going out with friends would be the toughest test to stay dry.
What I didn’t envision was how much alcohol had becone a force of habit.
‘Oh I’ll just have a Baileys to help me sleep’ oop, no, doing Dryathlon.
My second alternative to get a good nights kip while having a chest infection and breathing like Darth Vader running the marathon was some Nytol, which were pretty amazing, and I am now considering conducting all my nights out while off my tits on them.
Another benefit is how entertaining you find the little things in life while sober.
The cat doing a gravity defying, spontaneous backflip certainly provided hours of fun.
I’m still laughing now.