Life on Marlbs!

I took a trip back to the UK last month, my first for a couple of years. Not having flown for two years I was a bit like an excited puppy on the plane going over, and even more when I discovered that the flight had free Wifi. Unfotunately all the fun went out of that when I turned on social media to discover that David Bowie had died, and I glanced out of the plane’s window to see if I could spot the Starman ascending past 33,000 ft.

On this trip I was helping a friend move house – she was the brains and the beauty, I was obviously the brawn. My friend moved to Marlborough, situated in an exceptionally beautiful part of the UK. (Since returning I have had to explain to Spanish friends that it is not spelled Malboro, and it’s not where the cigarettes come from).

It didn’t rain while I was over there (news reports gave the impression that certain parts of England were sinking) and, being the middle of Wiltshire, I didn’t spot hordes of migrants (as again, news reports gave the impression that the sheer weight of migrant numbers were causing the afformentioned areas to sink).

The town was looking particularly beautiful on the Saturday morning when I popped into the shops. Everyone seemed to be driving a Land Rover Defender, wore Barbour jackets and Wellington Boots and had at least one Chocolate Labradour in tow.

I found myself musing that if I did ever decide to move back to the UK, then this was the kind of town that I could see myself settling down in.

And then I went shopping.

At the local upmarket supermarket, I picked up four items and strode up to the queue. There was an elderly gentleman, resplendent in Barbour Jacket (probably with a Land Rover Defender complete with Chocolate Lab in the car park) in front of me. As he was loading up his weekly shopping at the till, I did what I always do in Spain and asked (very politely) if I could hop in front of him as I only had four items.

I was unprepared for his reaction

“What! WHAT!” he bellowed “The shopping basket till is over there you fool!”

I was so stunned by his reply that I meekly said “Thank You” and shuffled off.

But as I stood in the shopping basket queue, my anger began to rise. It was, perhaps, a minor miracle that he drove off before me, or Malborough might have been treated to some of my choicest Andaluz swear words!

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