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Doesn’t quite count as Out let alone Out Out

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After the initial anger of Friday’s Close Encounter of the Third Kind came the inevitable plummet into unhappiness. Pootling about on the internet and checking, out of curiosity, what else was out there on the employment market did nothing to ease that sudden onset of malaise of the mind.
   £4K a year more than I earn now if I was a lollypop lady in Scotland! (Assume high salary includes some kind of thermal underwear & sou’wester allowance).

 £19K p.a. for a HLTA in Leeds at a CofE school?!  I bet they don’t get fingers jabbed in their faces there!

The only thing for it was to spend most of Saturday aimlessly wandering the streets under the guise of retail therapy (whilst actually just wanting to avoid any form of conversation or positive social interaction).  So I took myself off to Leeds for the day.  Alone.  People-watching.  Anything rather than spend another weekend in the house with childerbeast & Bman moaning about being bored or listening to them all shouting at each other on the Xbox or Minecraft, or shouting at them myself over some minor tidiness infraction.  Less me getting away from them, and more me distancing myself from them for the day to give them a break!

At Bradford Interchange I saw a man who had one foot much smaller than the other (or at least one shoe was way too large for him?)  Had he bought an odd pair by mistake or did he actually have a mis-sized pair of feet?  One a size 10 and the other a petite 5?

There was also a tiny girl of about 5ft 1″ who was wearing skyscraper heels.  She must have been miniscule without the killer stillies on.  She looked fabulous but I pitied her arches when she got home if she was planning on touring around the shops in those bad boys!  I had my leopard print flats on and my feet were aching something rotten by the time I got home.

There’s something pleasingly therapeutic about sitting on public transport, wired for sound, book in hand thinking about nothing but the tunes in my ears and the words infront of me (Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell).

Once in Leeds I set to with the task of drifting without purpose.  It’s been a while since I wandered the shops of Leeds for any length of time.  Primani inevitably loomed and I was drawn in on the promise of cheaply made bargain fashion items.  I got a pair of shorts & sandals for Thing 1 for our holiday to France.  I then spent over 20 minutes in the underwear dept in a fruitless attempt to find a bra in my size.  Proving then that my tits are in fact so shit that they can’t even be bothered to make any in my size.
  Mostly I was agog at the array, the plethora, if you will, of utter shite for sale.  The items seemed to cater mainly for the undersized, the under 18s, Thai Ladyboys, East European hookers & the mentally unhinged (or possibly all of the above).
I wanted to photograph some of the more ghastly pieces but feared apprehension from the store staff who may have thought I was a spy for a rival purveyor of

Atrocious apparel wars!

I found myself eventually in the new Trinity Centre.  A maze of pathways and bridges and stairs leading to shop after shop after shop.  It was busy but I noticed not many people had bags of shopping.  The recession however hasn’t seemed to curb the appetites or the pockets of the people of Leeds.  There were queues outside every single eaterie in that shopping centre.  Queuing to get into a place that just sells pretzels.  They were being handed menus in the line outside so they could make their choice the instant they eventually took a seat inside.  For someone who hardly ever ‘eats out’ because I’m too tightfisted to justify the expense (unless it’s some kind of special occasion), I found this sight quite nauseating.

My overall conclusion on the people-watching was that (a) I don’t wear nearly enough make-up compared with the majority but (b) thankfully I do know where to draw the line when it comes to following a fashion.  I’m not known for my sartorial elegance but I realised long ago that Daisy Duke shorts (even with tights underneath) can only be pulled off (as it were) by the under 22’s as streetwear.  Clubbers could get away with it for a couple of years longer.  (I once had favourite pair of black velvet hotpants myself but it was 1992 and I was slimmer).  If we start wearing festivalwear in the high street, where does that leave us during festival season?

Speaking of reliving our youth, my excitement was raised when I spotted a flyer in a window advertising that Grandmaster Flash was playing that very night at the Warehouse with ‘live breakdancers’ (as opposed to dead ones?). 
I was about to text Bman, get him to drop the childerbeast round at SB’s and get himself into townThen I as I had my phone out to take a photo to send him, I spotted that the poster was in fact a year old.


Real DJ’s use vinyl y’all.

Anyway I concluded my day release into the world beyond my bedroom by revisting my old nemesis.

The number of the beast was 508. 

How many hours have I spent what seems like a lifetime ago, sat on that bus watching the scenery, such as it is, trudge past as fast as the slow moving rush hour traffic would allow?  Too much time to think.  Introspection and retrospection are not your friends.  They taunt you.  Do not open the door to them.

It did not go unnoticed that on my initial journey into town (bus to Bradford Interchange then a train), that I had been on the move for almost an hour before the train I was on drove past where I live.

Travelling without moving. 

Continually going yet not actually getting any further away. 

Surely a metaphor right there!

I think what’s required here is an undignified night out (Out Out) with the kind of friends who could make the Hangover’s Wolfpack look like amateurs!  It’s been a long time since I get fucked up and woke up thinking “Crikey what happened there then?”

Anyone game?