1.
I have spent all morning trying to teach small people how to add numbers and how not to pick their noses. Now it is finally lunchtime and I am tired, hungry and in need of a sit down and some food. I walk into the staff room to see that almost every seat is taken with people eating healthy salads and home-made sandwiches - a sure sign that it is start of term. I sit down, set out the contents of my bag on the table in front of me, and explain how glad I am that I made my lunch the night before. Getting up before 7am has come as a bit of a shock to the system after 6 weeks of holiday, so I'm doing anything I can to snatch a few minutes extra in bed in the morning.
I pick up my sandwich, which I'd smugly wrapped in silver foil last night. I tear off the foil only to reveal one very large, distinctly unsandwich-like lump of mature cheddar cheese. The lump of cheddar that I had cut from to make the sandwich that is still sitting in my fridge.
2.
I am standing in one of the over-lit aisles of a 24 hour Tesco; a place so huge it should have its own postcode. I am peering at a shelf piled high with 2 for 1 shower gels, trying to decide between the purple jasmine and fig, the white chamomile and jojoba and the green ectoplasm simply labelled 'energise'. The importance of this decision cannot be under-estimated because it will determine how I smell for the next few weeks. I want to smell like a human, not an industrial chemical leak. The first two options sound nicer but in the mornings am I more in need of hearts and flowers or a short, sharp kick up the arse?
In order to make an informed decision I know what I have to do. Smell them all! I pick up the green one, flip open the lid and put my nose to the newly revealed hole. I sniff but get nothing. I smell only supermarket air. In my peripheral vision I see a brow-beaten Tesco employee stocking a shelf with toothpaste and contemplate that maybe sniffing products before buying them is not right and proper. Nevertheless, I am determined to know what I'm getting myself into before I commit my hard-earned cash. I begin to inhale deeply through my nose whilst simultaneously giving the bottle a little squeeze. You know, to help the smell out. Before I know it, the lower half of my face is covered in snot-coloured slime.
From the deep-heat style tingling around my chin area, I'm guessing that the 'energising' element of the shower gel is mint. I quickly put the green bottle back on the shelf and throw the purple and white bottles into my basket. As I walk pass the sniggering shelf-stacker I pretend that I am rubbing my chin in contemplation at the wonders of consumerism. She doesn't buy it.
