Retail therapy – not medically proven

After a visit to the local sawbones last week I decided I needed cheering up. It was around the time of my birthday, so what better tonic to a morning being jabbed with needles and made to wait in a smelly room with diseased individuals, and the obligatory ancient copies of National Geographic with the rude bits scribbled over, than heading off into town to buy myself a shiny gewgaw?

Birthday boys deserve shiny things, it's the law. You can check if you don't believe me. So off I tootled into the great metropolis of Aberdeen to do that retail thing. And with the whole smorgasbord of modern technology laid out before me, do you know what I ended up going home with? A pack of five tea towels and a new wooden spoon.


A couple of weeks ago I was pondering getting a PlayStaion 3, yet I end up with a cooking implement and probably the most boring thing anyone can ever buy in the whole history of boring things for buying: tea towels. WHO THE HELL BUYS TEA TOWELS? What kind of screwed-up shit is that? I'm young(ish), still got all my teeth and some of my hair, and yet: tea towels.

Tea towels.

Maybe I'm having some sort of anti-midlife crisis? Instead of the clichéd motorbike and mistress I'm going to buy a cardigan and a caravan? Tea fucking towels. For God's sake.

It probably doesn't help that I'm currently clawing my way, word by painful word, up the North Face of Book Number The Fifth. Base Camp -- where all this seemed like such a good idea at the time -- is a long, long way below; the summit is a long, long way above; and now I'm stuck in the bit that's full of mountain goat droppings, Yeti footprints, and discarded plastic bags.

Worse yet, there's not even anyone to cannibalize to break the monotony.

But at least I can make a crude shelter against the snow out of tea towels, and if that Yeti shows it's face I can stab the ugly bastard with my wooden spoon.


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