Grrr! Now that is annoying!

What bugs Caroline Quentin?

Are there any everyday occurrences that get on your nerves, drive you to distraction, round the twist or up the wall? I consider myself a fairly tolerant human being, but there are a few situations that really cheese me off.

I think I should start with an apology: usually when irritated by life’s little hiccups, I whinge at my mates or long-suffering spouse, but today I find myself alone. Therefore, I’m afraid it is you, dear readers, who I turn to in this, well, not darkest hour, but certainly a gloomy one.

Yesterday, while on a train to London, a man sat beside me eating a burger. Normally I’d simply look out of the window and wait for the impromptu supper club to draw to a close, but this guy was UNBELIEVABLE. The smell was extraordinary and the pong combined with his chewing action, which would put a camel to shame, was distressing. I asked myself an hour later: how can a person take so long to eat fast food?

I should have moved seats, but the train was busy and, truthfully, my idiotic, British reserve meant I didn’t feel I could say anything or even get up and walk away. I was cross with the masticator, cross with the burger chain and cross with my own inability to take action. My social cowardice didn’t even allow me a proper sigh and tut, usually the last resort of the ineffectual, grumpy, passive-aggressive middle-class Brit.

I’m sorry to say I lost my rag again today! While taking a shower, I reached for the shampoo, which is designed for grey hair, so presumably intended for people of a certain age who, one would assume, might struggle with reading. So why are the conditioner and shampoo bottles indistinguishable? Same colour, same size and the same minuscule print on them? Of course, I used the conditioner first then had to wash it out and start all over again. BIGGER PRINT, please. It’s not rocket science. I realise I’m in danger of going on a bit, but I’ll just give you a small insight into something that happened as I was trying to buy a new bra a couple of hours ago.

I needed a 32GG, which is a fairly large cup size. So imagine my delight at discovering that all the larger cup sizes are on the lowest rail in the shop, practically on the floor, leaving those of us with an ample bosom to grovel on our hands and knees to read labels, while those blessed with neat little busts can simply grab a B cup and skip off into the sunshine. Am I being punished for having big knockers? Do men with large genitals have to lie face down and crawl commando style, squinting into the shadows with a sense of shame, searching for voluminous boxer shorts?

Apologies, Prima chums, enough ranting. I’m off to have a cup of chamomile tea and a lie down. Thank you for being there when I needed a shoulder to cry on. I promise I’ll be more upbeat next month, unless, of course, I’m unlucky enough to sit next to Burger Boy on the train again, in which case, HOLD ME BACK!

‘Am I being punished for big knockers?’