Always problems, never solutions…

Arriving home, my expectation was to be greeted by the girls eulogising the day’s school shenanigans. In contrast, my welcoming committee at Chateau Colney was a red card stating my item ‘will be at the collection office in 24 hours’. The knowledge that the bell works, ‘the wife’ was in situ and there is a humongous sign on the door asking delivery drivers, in our absence, to leave any parcels with my neighbour, added to my first world problem. To then be informed that it may take Royal Mail 24 hours to safely ensconce said item at the sorting office 2 miles yonder brought me a delivery of first world angst. My issue was exacerbated the following evening as I fought to prove my credentials to a Post Office counter staff worker bedecked in the most glorious mullet I have ever seen. Her raison d’etre was that she was doing me a good turn by not delivering my item the previous day before proceeding to make me jump through identity hoops for a 5 pack of inner tubes and non-drip water bottle.

A curious 21st Century phenomena, the First world problem, in the heat of battle, seems like the biggest issue in the world. In hindsight and upon reflection however, the issue that causes undue stress still seem like the biggest issue in the world.

I raged internally yesterday when Sainsbury’s ran out of Bubblemint extra chewing gum. My utter disdain was intensified a few minutes later when the checkout operative confirmed the fact that she aint no Carol Vorderman. I handed over £12.05 for items costing £7.05 and then watched as confusion reigned. After explaining that the return payment should be £5, she then casually put the boot in by handing me change in 50p pieces which she placed on top of the receipt before offloading. She then watched nonplussed as, with 3 bags of shopping cutting into my wrists, I attempted to tip the coinage into my wallet before she bid me a ‘pleasant evening’.

Upon exit, with my hands now having lost all feeling, the automatic door was on go slow as I walked straight into it before one of the bags split and I attempted to balance 2 packets of Weetabix Minis under my armpit as I stumbled off to the Vauxhall Corsa in the drizzle. Upon opening the tailgate with my knee, I managed to locate the 27 bags for life that were hiding in the boot before I shed a self-pitying tear and grabbed a handful of damp breakfast cereal with which to console myself.

FWP’s have me in the crosshairs some days. Wearing socks in a wet bathroom, being given a restaurant table outside the toilets, not having ‘Brett’ written on a named Coke bottle and the amount of ice pubs serve with soft drinks, these fast become major irritations which grate intensely in the heat of everyday battle.

A friend raged recently because he couldn’t close his wallet bemoaning the fact that he had ‘too many notes in it’. I saw another lose his rag as the Ketchup in the café wasn’t Heinz but a cheap watered down substitute.
We all have stress inducing FWP’s, yet we need to find time to eradicate them once and for all. I don’t want to get too Socialist and advocate us all living in harmony and respecting each other come what may as, to me, they are empty idealistic vessels, full of meaning yet devoid of substance. Even as I write this column, lying in bed at 7am on a Saturday morning, I am somewhat irked as I have a mild hangover due to the fact that Carling was off and I was forced to endure the head heavy Stella last night. One thing that will console me is the go to guy: Earl Grey. Sadly, I will have to construct it myself as my wife fills the mug to the brim and frequently overlooks the milk and sweeteners.