Leaning on it. Just touching it. Trying to get the blasted thing to steer properly. No matter what I do with it, it seems to have a mind of its own and that mind is to irritate me to the point of exasperated flight from this confusing madhouse I am forced to enter. Around me people seem to be blissfully unaware of the evil thing they handle as they go about the actions of filling these ..... these things ......
The object of my dismay? A shopping trolley!
I dislike shopping. Exchanging my hard earned money for the supplies I need to stay alive is the reason I find myself in a supermarket. Admittedly, I like eating well. Not too much of course but I like good food prepared well. Consequently I load a trolley with interesting things when I force myself to go shopping. And this is where things go wrong.
With meticulous care I will evaluate a trolley before I grudgingly take it into the shop and it is something in the universe that has fun with me. The moment I place anything heavy, like a bag of flour into the trolley it misbehaves like a spoilt brat. There will be one wheel that was waiting for that slight increase in pressure on a tired bearing to increase the rolling resistance and immediately that trolley will show its character. It either swings to the left or right while being pushed or it will refuse to turn and then flatly refuse to straighten out once it
did
turn.
At the end of the shopping excursion I have a muscle in my lower back that threatens revenge by going into spasm.
Of course, this is not all....
Imagine people driving cars the way they handle shopping trolleys The Earth would be sparsely populated because it will be a massacre out there. Stopping without any warning and for no apparent reason. Stopping in the middle of the road and just leave the vehicle, holding up half of humankind behind you while you inspect a blade of grass. And then of course, that scourge of moving humankind. The mindless turn. No visible or comprehensible reason nor indication and it will turn while the minder of said vehicle, car or trolley, has its eyes and mind plottering around Pluto or somewhere.
Driving in India is something else. On an Indian roadway the safest place is inside a parked battle tank. Preferably painted in Day-Glo orange. Anywhere else and you may die. If not from injury, then at least from fear of sustaining said injuries. Anybody going to visit India and wishing to use a rental is certifiable. In India there are those who drive and those who do not. It is a clear cut simplicity. You can drive, and do it all day, or you can't and die of old age, never having touched a steering wheel. There are no rules except those you make up on the spot. A simple rule. The louder the horn/hooter/trumpet and the frequency of repetitive blaring, the higher the authority. Without a horn/hooter/tooter, a vehicle is deemed unsafe to use and may be impounded.
Which is why you find parked battle tanks.
On average there are thirty days in a month. Some of us get paid halfway through and some at the end of a month. Payday shopping.... It should be illegal! Unless your credit card is maxed out, why do you have to do your shopping on payday? Do you get a kick out of being bashed around, held up and confused? Confused because on payday the goons in the shops move things around the night before to force you into a search. A search that intentionally leads you past shelves of junk you do not need but feel the urge to buy.
Of course there are these 'bargains'. A bargain being something you cannot use at a price you cannot resist and yet....
My trolley that day was a gem. It trundled along the smooth tiled floor with ease and not once did it even attempt to baulk at any change in direction. I loaded a bag of bread flour into the front simply because the back of the trolley was occupied by those crushable things we stupidly buy first instead of last. Instead of walking to the back of the trolley, I simply grabbed it by the front end and just as it started to move, I noticed a 'bargain' on the other side of the aisle. Breakfast cereal on 'special'. I do not eat cereal. I don't even buy it to do that awful thing called 'garden bird feeding'. And yet, without even considering the possible mayhem, I felt the need to suddenly turn my trolley at right angles in the aisle to confirm my suspicion that the 'special' actually was slightly more expensive per unit of mass than the smaller packaging right behind it in the shelf.
There was a gasp and then I felt my hand smashed to the sound of trolleys crashing. The surprise was enough to make me yelp. The pain was good reason to make a substantial noise. The anger at my own stupidity made me growl. The commotion made shoppers turn....
I heard a female voice saying, "I'm dreadfully sorry," while I stupidly stared at my hand. My middle finger stood at an odd angle, blood was starting to ooze from a deep cut on my second finger and the broken bone inside was visible for a second or two before blood obscured the view.
"You'll need a doctor mister," some master of deduction said next to me and I simply nodded. The woman driver responsible for the accident gently put her hand under my arm to support the mangled hand and I almost jerked it away from fear of a bump.
Although my hand felt numb I knew - in minutes I was going to sing a tune to pain so I gripped my wrist to comfort myself, wincing as a sharp spike of pain went through my arm.
"Can I take you to a hospital or doctor sir?" I heard her ask and I nodded as I stood there looking at my hand that by now was dripping blood onto the floor. She gently tugged on my arm and I mindlessly followed her. No way in hell was I going to drive anywhere with this paw of mine unless I had no other way.
As we left the shop she made me wait and ran back inside, emerging with a plastic bag in her hand which she carefully pulled over my bleeding hand.
"It is not my car," she offered as an excuse for wrapping my hand in a shopping bag and I chuckled.
"So, if it was yours, would bleeding over the seats and carpeting be okay?"
"I won't have to explain it," she grinned and showed me to a rather aged SUV. "It is my dad's and he would be rather peeved if I let you bleed all over it."
"I'll keep my hand out the window," I chuckled and gingerly manoeuvred myself into the passenger side, holding my hand out of harm's way as she closed the door and walked around the back to get in.
"Hospital or doctor?" she asked and gave me an admonishing smile. "And keep your hand inside."
"The doctor will look at it and send me to hospital anyway, so yeah, make for hospital."
"Medical aid?"
"Yes," I grinned and she nodded as she drove out of the parking lot. Whether it was because of her father's car or my soon to be very painful hand, but she was a very careful driver without the typical nervous energy so often displayed by women behind the wheel.
She knew her way around and soon we stopped at the hospital where it took the typical mountain of forms that had to be filled in. I had a useless hand and she filled out everything, groping for my wallet in my pocket to get my cards. I felt like cracking a joke but decided against it. I had no idea of her sense of humour and until such time as I was admitted, I needed her there.
Eventually I was ushered away into a cubicle and soon a doctor gave me a look that made my hair stand on end once he had carefully manoeuvred my fingers around.
