Very, very rarely, I manage to bag the car to do a mystery shop. Today was one of those days. I always think it will be less stressful when I drive to a store rather than jog, bike or train it, but thanks to the gorgeous vocal tones of a borrowed sat-nav, I reckon my hair’s cantered through at least 50 different Dulux shades of brown on a crash-course towards woodlouse silver.
The thing with a sat-nav is that it really is a brilliant thing. I wouldn’t have had a clue how to get to the arse end of Adel if it wasn’t for that machine. However, it’s my own human error that stresses me out and pisses me off.
I just can’t understand my own idiocy in misinterpreting simple commands of a computerised voice. ‘Turn left in 200 metres’ usually leads to me gormlessly searching for any sort of turning 500 metres later.
The fact that it gets dark seemingly before it gets light in December didn’t help either, and, coupled with a rain intensity Noah would be proud of, I got lost more times than I would have done than if a passer-by had given me a rough etching of Swindon high street on the back of a fag box and told me to take the nearest space shuttle.
Anyway, apart from me getting lost nothing much really happened today. Oh, although I did successfully manage to achieve ultimate boredom by sitting in a year’s worth of traffic jams listening to either crap radio music or a discussion about the deservedness of the new X-factor winner.
All I have to say it this: No one called Joe has ever made it big.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment