Grrr! Now that is an­noy­ing!

What bugs Caro­line Quentin?

Prima (UK) - - Contents -

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?’

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