My Bag for Life just died.
And I swore vicious, horrid swearwords, out loud, in public, when it did.
I’m a man on the edge. Obviously.
When I mean my Bag for Life died I mean it expired.
Gave up the ghost.
Bit the dust. Bought the farm. Gone to the big supermarket in the sky. Popped it’s clogs.
I put things in it, as one does with a Bag For Life, confident that this bag’s ‘For Life’ status meant it stood more than a fighting chance of getting me back from the shops with some potatoes, a bag of carrots and some washing powder.
Did it do that? Did it perform it’s designated function efficiently? Did it do the one BLOODY THING IT’S DESIGNED TO DO?
Did it heck.
Three steps out the shop, the handle goes and vegetables were all over the gaff. I narrowly avoided sending an old guy tumbling on an errant carrot, and received a tut of disapproval from a couple of old ladies when I called my broken bag, among other things, “a big piece of plastic arsecocks.”
Could I go back into the shop and complain? No. Because the Bag for Life I was using was not from this shop what I was just in.
First World Problems right?
I fashioned some sort of sack affair. I tied the broken handle to the other handle, and attempted to carry it using this new handle and a half, but I gave up as my hand was being garotted and my fingers were turning blue. So I carried the vegetables home in my arms, close to my chest while the other bits of shopping filled my pockets.
I was hugging my ex-Bag For Life, with vegetables and a tin of beans hanging out of my coat pocket, looking like a shoplifter with attachment issues and an inappropriate love of carrots.
I got my items home and threw them on the sofa. Annoyed.
A potato bounced back and hit me on the leg.
I wondered if the Bag for Life was in fact a Sign For Life.
Life gives you lemons, so you make lemonade right? But if your Bag For Life dies what does this mean? Is it a portent? An omen for one’s mortality?
It’s a small thing, one’s Bag For Life carking on you, isn’t it? After all, it’s just a bag.
But what if it’s not just a bag.
Bear with me caller, let me explain how my headbox works.
I tend to see things on a vast scale sometimes. When I’m in a certain mood and pissed off to the back teeth with the fiddly stuff life shoves in your pigeon hole.
I sometimes think the little events in one’s life are interconnected in some way.
My Bag For Life dying was a test, a challenge, and one which could push me screaming over a precipice, causing me to go ‘FUCK THIS SHIT’ to all the little bits of bollocks that’ve been going on behind the scenes over the past few months, and prompting me to finally rage against them all, like a hungover bear in uncomfortable footwear.
Or I could go the other way.
I could think, ‘it’s only a bag dawg’ and pick up the vegetables and just get on with ting.
I think I do enough of the latter. It IS only a bag. But perhaps it IS also time to get angry about stuff. After all I don’t want to be one of those people who takes it and takes it and then, when their Bag For Life breaks, becomes a sweary mess in the corner of the car park screaming at the injustices of life while scooping rolling Maris Pipers into their pockets.
Perhaps I should just buy one of those jute bad boys.
Thanks for reading.