BluE Scrubs

My weekend in London was supercallyfregelisticexpialydocious. (no you cannot correct my spelling)

I watched Cristian Slater being naked and later dead, at the Gielgud Theatre on Saturday with the Codger (where a full review of the play One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest can be found), being fed sinful food by the Goddess everyday, ate loads and laughed loads. I think my laughter lines are making it's debut.
I also discover that I could potentially downed 8 Californian rolls even after vehemently saying 'I am soo full' at the Japanese Centre in Picadilly.




***


I want to take blogging to a whole new level.

I want to confess. I picked up my car at Doncaster train station after a 2 hr journey from London on Monday. It was left there for sodding 3 days. It had to be done.


The charge for a day parking at Doncaster train station was £4. The fickle minded girl and the deep rooted Malay in me couldn't comprehend or justify the upfront payment for the parking for the next 2 days. What if the next 2 days never come? So , I paid £4 and £4 only.

I approached my car anticipating mummification by stickers and clamps and chains and flyers to say that I have to pay the remaining of the fee totalling to a whopping £8!!!. Which is quite a lot.

I walked past the car and glanced once. None on the windscreen.

Turned 180 walked back , past the frosted looking Renault Megane again. No sticker.

Cut across to the back, scratching my head giving the look of just viewing this hideous looking blue car which had not seen any soap and water for god forsaken how many months now but not really looking AT the car. And no sticker and no clamps. Biar benar. A bit like finding the NHS paying £100 extra in the paycheck. Only that never happened. Again, biar benar.

Didn't waste time looking left or right. Beeped the car open. Jumped in. Wanted to screech out of the parking area, as quickly as possible.

Car wouldn't start. *gulp*

Tried again and again. Felt warm all over. Took jacket off, gloves off. Scarf felt strangulating and incarcerating the mission impossible. A gentle tap at the window. Felt a trickle down the leg.

Oh no not you. Smiled blissfuly at the parking attendant.

"Problem miss?", peering in.

"It does this sometimes, hehehhehe". Smile and more smiles.

Proceeded to, this time with bold bismillah audible to his ears and mine and a weetabix-fuelled stamp to the accelerator and clutch, gear in 1.

Car throttled to full Glasgow coma of 15. Hurrrahhh!!

Parking attendant was a very very yummy man but I was very very eager to get away before you my yummy yummy friend discover that I have not paid the £8.


That was not wrong, was it?

Shall wait for the penalty letter in full remorse. If never arrived shall be very happy. Twiddle twiddle.