Constructing a sentence

I am beginning to think that perhaps I do not articulate terribly well. In fact, it is even occurring to me, after yesterday, that maybe what I think are fully constructive sentences are not at all. I think I have perhaps lost the art of constructing a sentence, or at least one that makes sense to everyone else. Or, of course it could just be that everyone I am coming across are all the dumb people. Take yesterday for example. Now, where to start?
Well, if you recall, we had a wonderful holiday apart from the car and cat problems.
The car, it seems, is an ongoing problem. Now, I can deal with this. I am a mature woman. I understand cars have issues and need to be dealt with. I cannot however deal with a husband who seems to either be going deaf, or has selective hearing where I am concerned. I think it is the latter.
For the past three years he has had a mobile phone, whoops correction, a PDA which he uses to connect to his computer for his software work (straight over my head), which also doubles up as his mobile. Except the battery has been dying on a regular basis for the past six months. This has not been a serious issue as he emails me from work and I get that on my blackberry and email him back. But, god forbid, I may need to phone him and say,
‘Hey honey, could you stop off at the supermarket and get some toilet roll.’
Not that I would ever use those words, but you get my drift. Just a roll of toilet paper would kill his phone in an instant. So, I have coped with this problem without a complaint, apart from the odd,
‘Could you not get a new mobile darling, you know in case of emergency and all that?’
So, yesterday I went to the shops with the intention of being there for a short time and to maybe check out a cheap Nokia for him. I only needed a pair of shoes for a wedding on saturday after all.
I am not a lover of multi story parking and it took me all of twenty minutes to find a space. I ended up on the fourth floor and decided to take the lift down. First mistake.
I stepped in and was practically thrown to the floor by the onslaught of body odour and the leering eyes of what had to be a pervert. I attempted to retreat but the doors closed on me. I was somewhat relieved to see another woman with a child and proceeded to hold my breath. After just a few seconds the lift lurched and stopped.
we were all silent for a while. All trying to look calm and seeming not bothered in the least. Then the woman with the baby suddenly started banging all the buttons.
‘Oh my god, are we stuck. Do you have any water? Oh my god what do we do?’
Not panic maybe!
I handed her my half bottle of water which she snatched and quickly popped two pills which she washed down with my water. Now, my head was throbbing. I looked at the empty bottle and sighed. The smell was becoming intense now. I opened the little flap where the phone would be, there wasn’t one.
‘Oh my god, oh my god, my baby.’
I fought the impulse to slap her. Meanwhile the stinky man just stands there like a statue and now the baby picks up mum’s anxiety and screams for bloody England, while I try to remember what I needed so badly at the damn shops that would make this all worthwhile.
‘We could jump up and down,’ the smelly man suddenly suggests.
I try not to look unimpressed as I pull out my blackberry and get the phone number for marks and spencer which is on the ground floor. I have to shout above the baby’s screaming.
‘Could you get someone to fix the lift in the multi story car park please, we seem to be stuck and cannot get it to move.’ I mean, was that well constructed or what?
‘What car park would that be madam?’
Do what? There is only one in the whole town.
‘The one here, the one right outside your store.’
‘Can you hold on madam.’
Why?
Five minutes pass and then a woman comes on the phone.
By now my head is fit to burst,
‘What are they doing for god’s sake?’ yells mum.
‘I understand you are stuck in a lift, can you give us clear directions just where you are?’
oh please!
‘I am on the top floor of Bloomingdales of course. For goodness sake, we have a crying baby here. We are in the lift outside your store, right here in the town.’
‘There is no need to be rude madam we are trying to help you.’
I want to tell her I am about to pass out from an overdose of unsavoury body odour and could she have a medic waiting. Meanwhile, I try to ignore the fact that the man with us has his hand in an unsavoury place also.
I apologise and try to give clear concise instructions. She asks do I have enough battery to stay on the phone so they can get someone to sort out the problem. For Goodness sake!
‘Madam,can you confirm that you are in the lift that connects to the multi story car park?’
‘I already have.’
‘Well there is a lift in Debenhams, are you in that?’
‘I know where I bloody am. I am right outside your store on the 4th floor, which word do you not understand, store, floor, 4th?’
‘We are trying to help you madam.’
Why does it not feel like that?
Suddenly the think jerks and we are moving again. The doors suddenly open and I am out like a shot. Any plans of visiting Marks and Spencer are abandoned and I head to New look. I forget the phone, take the stairs back to my car and head home.
Thank god, time to relax. Never, ever again will I allow that thought to enter my head.
I decide to do a quick dinner of bean burgers and veg. Andrew emailed he was leaving twenty minutes before I stuck everything in the oven. I had just sat down when my mobile rang with a voice message. It was Andrew, the bloody car had broken down again. I phoned him back, forgetting the battery issue.
‘I have been trying for fifteen minutes to get it to restart. I will have to call the breakdown people so better go. I have some battery so will phone you when they get here.’
I wait and wait and wait. The phone goes. A Text.
‘Change of plan, they were bringing me home. But am going to the Peugeot garage with it can you collect me from there?’
I text back.
‘Where is that?’
Ten minutes pass and no response. I deliberate, should I or shouldn’t I call him back.
I do.
‘We are at the garage can you get me?’
Then I hear the man from the breakdown company say something about dropping him off somewhere nearer home.
‘Ok, can you collect me at Fri…’
Phone cuts out. I sit in the car, ready to leave. A woman geared up with nowhere to go. For god’s sake. I try his phone three times and just get voice mail.
I rush inside and google Fri and Oxfordshire and Peugeot and get a vague idea of where he may be. I set off and then decide to phone the breakdown company. They can patch me through (as they say on ‘24’) to the breakdown driver.
I pull in to a lay by and call them.
‘Hi, sorry to bother you but I am going to collect my husband who has been dropped off by your people and I am going to collect him. His phone battery has died so I am not sure where I am collecting him from. Can you put through to the driver he was with?’
Clear, concise sentence, yes? Obviously not.
‘Can I have his registration.’
That is like asking me can they have his waist measurement.How the hell do I know. I don’t even know my own reg without looking.
‘I don’t know it.’
‘Can I have your house number and postcode.’
I give it.
‘Okay madam, I can see he was picked up. They are relaying him home.’
‘No, they were but then there was a change of plan, can you just put me through to the driver.’
This is obviously very difficult for him.
‘Just putting you on hold madam.’
I get nice music. Then a woman answers.
‘Can I help you?’
I explain again.
‘Can you phone your husband?’
Erm, did I not cover that one already?
‘His battery died, so no I can’t.’
‘Do you think he will phone you?’
Of course, how silly, why did I not think of that.
‘His battery has died, I do not think he can. I think your man has dropped him off at one of two places can you phone him and ask him where he has done that so I know where I am going.’
By now I am driving while on the phone as it is all taking too long.
‘Putting you on hold.”
Oh, for Christ sake.
Five minutes later.
‘Do you know where the garage was?’
Oh this is getting stupid.
I give her the name of the place and say I do not know how to get there which is why I need the driver to tell me.
‘Oh, hold on. Fred,’ she shouts ‘Do you know where Frithwell is?’
I have to be in a nightmare. Surely this cannot be happening. How hard can it be to put me through to a driver. He has a bloody phone.
‘I will try to get hold of the driver and call you back,’ she says.
I go to give her my number but she tells me she has it on her system. I later find out she didn’t have it at all. She phoned Andrew and managed to get him on a small amount of battery he had left. Then realised she could not phone me back. I meanwhile am heading to a place I have never been to in my life before and have no idea where I am going. I am cursing the woman, cursing Andrew, cursing his car and am almost in tears. I try Andrew again, nothing. I am half way to the place when my phone goes.
‘I am in Cumnor by the pub, can you come there.’
Shit, I am now on the motorway. More curses and I then manage to turn around and head back. I pull up beside him with a screech and we drive home in silence at 90 miles an hour until Andrew speaks.
‘I will need clean pants when we get home if you continue like this.’
‘If you do not get a phone by this time tomorrow, I am leaving,’ I say all dramatically. I know and he knows I have nowhere to go.
‘Ok,’ he responds.
Tonight we are collecting the car and I am fearful. I feel like I am going on a fairground ride. At least he got a Nokia phone so should we lose each other, we can maintain contact. Wish me luck…

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