Two of the rooms in my flat were bright, early-morning-sunshine yellow. It looked rather like the colour of custard under the faded glare of the electric lightbulb. Today, I made it round one of those rooms with white emulsion, and I covered it up.
It's powerful though, that yellow. Like the sun behind the clouds on a warm day in June, or an upturned fried egg, the custardy, sunshine goodness is still poking through the white. Clearly I will need to go round again. And that means more paint.
"Is it possible to order-in some more paint?" I asked a teenager in a red t-shirt. He looked afraid, eyes wide open as though I'd asked to see the manager's accounts or the combination to the safe.
"I... I don't know..." he trembled.
This is another thing about Betwixtmas: all the grown-ups who work in DIY stores are at home with their families... leaving the sixteen year olds to hold the fort. Now I really don't mind this - teenagers keep the economy moving at times like this and it teaches them things that will stick for the rest of their lives. It just wasn't helpful for getting to the bottom of my question.
There was one grumpy-looking manager (35ish) who seemed to have lost at straw-picking and was in charge today. He wore a short sleeved shirt with a tie - a combo that is highly lauded at Retail Outlet Deputy Manager Training School, I understand. However it wasn't long before even he was distracted by a more important customer question in the bathroom section.
"I think it's out of stock," said the teenager, glaring at a coloured screen.
"Really?" I said, knowing that it almost certainly wasn't.
"It says 'discontinued' but... there are two in the warehouse." He scratched his head.
"Right..." I said.
"So... Do you want us to go and check?"
Yes. Of course, yes.
"Um, yes please."
He sent his friend (also 16, presumably working hard so that he can pass his driving test... not judging, we've all been there (World Turned Upisde Down Harvester, 1996)). His friend then disappeared for about thirty minutes, presumably, checking the warehouse in Ulaan Bator.
"I'd go and see where he is, but I'm not allowed to leave the tills," said the first petrified adolescent.
In the end it turned out that they didn't have it in the warehouse. I asked about the system but realised that the part-time teenagers probably wouldn't have considered how the database works or how it could have been infused with erroneous data so disappointingly.
I said thank you to both of them for their time, but I did wonder whether I'd allowed my frustration out into a situation again. I can't bear it when that happens - I feel like I've infected a tiny part of the world, every time. And it's only paint - it doesn't matter.
Though having said that, seriously, I think the paint might be giving me nightmares.
More tomorrow.
On the fifth day of Christmas
The quails began to speak!
In tiny high-pitched voices
From their tiny high-pitched beaks
I listened very closely
To the language that they used
And quickly ascertained
That quails are really rather rude
They flapped around the kitchen
And they fluttered round the hall
Using words to turn a sailor blue
And insults to appall
The partridge got embarrassed
And he nested in the roof
The hens just shrugged their wings
And simply kept themselves aloof
And I was contemplating
Whether it would be alright
To trap them in the cupboard
If only for the night
But getting all four in there
Required a lot of hope
And as I tried, my eye espied
A small white envelope
"Hello, what's this?" I questioned
And I moved towards the door
The calling birds were off again
Insulting me once more
But Christmas is a season
For miracles to grow
I opened up the envelope
And saw a golden glow
On the fifth day of Christmas
She'd sent me golden rings
And one went on each finger
Which is the way of things
"Maybe she loves me after all!"
I closed the door and said
The partridge flew right over me
And pooped upon my head
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