Trouble With Numbers
I’d finally achieved my objective and got my book published, so I could sit back and rest on my laurels – couldn’t I? Oh no, not a bit of it. I hadn’t reckoned with the all-important work of promotion, but my agent soon disillusioned me. She informed me how important it was for me to be high profile and outgoing, so I told her I had never been a salesperson. I preferred to be the proverbial wallflower, and detested the idea of being thrust into the limelight. All to no avail. If my book was to sell then I had to do my bit.
A reporter from the local paper arrived on my doorstep to interview me, and then organised book signings were scheduled, talks to women’s groups, and other marketing ploys, most of which I regarded with abject horror. In one of my weaker moments, I was even persuaded into giving a live chat show at our local radio station. To this day I don’t know how I was tricked into doing it.
When the day arrived I was a bundle of nerves, so I had a drop of sherry to bolster my confidence. Big mistake. It made me blasé and careless. During a lull in the proceedings the interviewer asked me, quite casually – sort of off the cuff so to speak, if I had ever had an embarrassing moment? Well, of course most people have had at least one time that they’ve no wish to recall haven’t they? Mine was in a supermarket car park of all places, not so long ago, so it was still relatively fresh in my mind, but why I decided to relate it over the airwaves I’ve no idea. I wasn’t really watching the lights to say when we were live or not.
First, I should admit that I am very bad at remembering numbers. I must be the world’s worst. My family make fun of me because I even have to make a note of my own mobile phone number. You can imagine the trouble I have with cash machine PINs and log on info for the Internet. It’s a nightmare. I once had to go to the casualty department at our local hospital for treatment for something minor, and when they asked for my date of birth my mind went completely blank. I know it’s ridiculous, but I don’t seem to be able to alter.
Like I said, my humiliating occurrence happened one day in the parking lot of our local supermarket. My husband and I had been doing our usual weekly shopping – a chore neither of us enjoy, it’s merely a necessary excursion to be gone through. As we left the shop I walked on ahead, deep in thought, mulling over what to have for lunch and that sort of thing, with my husband following on trundling the trolley – or so I thought. Unbeknown to me, he’d spotted a friend and stopped for a chat, while I continued merrily on my way dodging the other shoppers. When I realised he wasn’t with me I carried on and got into the passenger seat of the car to wait, leaving him the job of unloading and dealing with the trolley park.
I became aware that the interior of the car looked more untidy than usual, and prepared to chivvy my hubby into some serious spring-cleaning. The car was his domain to look after since he was the one to drive it, I had enough on looking after the house. Absentmindedly I opened the glove locker hoping to find a mint or tube of pastilles. I certainly wasn’t prepared for the sight of a pair of sexy ladies panties. They were black, lacy, flimsy bits of nonsense, and more to the point were definitely not mine. I sat staring at them somewhat stunned, but then I got my dander up. Grabbing the offending object I slammed out of the car just as my husband approached. Seeing me, grim faced and waving the knickers aloft, he first of all look startled and then burst out laughing. That was too much. It was no laughing matter. I began haranguing him like a demented fishwife. Even though shoppers stopped in their tracks, I didn’t care. I ranted on about the late nights and golfing afternoons, demanding to know where exactly he had been.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man jog past me, jump into the car and drive off. And then it sort of slowly registered something wasn’t right. My husband wasn’t upset. He hadn’t said anything. He looked as if he was having difficulty keeping a straight face. The shoppers who had stopped to witness my outburst were now moving on chuckling, leaving me wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. Calmly taking a deep breath I turned to where my hubby was diligently loading the shopping into our car that was parked next but one along. Hurriedly I stuffed the knickers in my pocket, and with as much dignity as I could muster, opened the passenger door and got in.
My husband was still chuckling inanely, when, having disposed of the trolley, he joined me, and finally answered my allegations. He had been working late at the office because they had been exceptionally busy of late, and he had been on the golf course when he said he had, and added that he hoped I believed him because it was the truth. As we drove away I realised the offending car had been identical in colour and make, and obviously had been left unlocked while the occupant rushed to buy a paper. But what my husband couldn’t credit was that I hadn’t noticed the car number plate was completely different from ours. To add to my discomfiture he declared, “you do realise you’re a knicker thief, Nicky, a knicker thief,” and roared with laughter.
