The (Almost) Final Mad Dash

Shopping and it’s evils. It’s strange what a dose of the Trafford Centre can do. I began today tripping over my feet while I slept walked through college in head fog yet quickly jumped in the role of; slightly mad, jabbering young woman, on entering TC.

This morning I was being handed ProPlus by A as I tried to keep my eyes open to revise for an Ecology test – boring enough in itself – yet by the time I’d got past the hour mark of shopping I’d transformed into agitated madwoman. The people were staring at me, the vents were screaming and everyone was “getting in my fucking way (you fat cow!)”

Trying to meander your way through a shopping centre is hard enough when you’re in a “normal” mood, but when you’re swinging around like a monkey in a tree things just get that tiny bit harder. I felt like I was moving in slow motion so I began to pull and push my mum in and out of each shop, muttering about people standing gormlessly in the way, didn’t they know people had things to do.

Towards the end, my feet were aching, my back was aching, my neck, my shoulders, my knees – I must be pushing the age of 67. Bodily complaints weren’t the only age related moans. There were some tracksuited bodies “yeerr wot”-ing outside a cubicle I was in, so out walks Emma..”oops did my door hit you.” Then a bellowing voice came from my mouth, “Hey mum, d’you reckon the chavs are on the rob again?” Bad mouth.

The trip wasn’t wholly fruitless anyway, which is the point I should be getting at. I got a few bits and bobs. Need to head out again tomorrow though, back in to the fray, ‘cept this time it’ll be the familiar territory of Mancunia.

I’m feeling ranty tonight. Agitated, panicky, depressed, yet moving far too much for my poor head to handle. Shut up Em.