” Already been feeding your addiction this morning I see” said Heather, the office busy body and self-appointed food detective and anti-coffee crusader.
“A-Addiction?” I stammered. I was acutely aware of my addictions to Tabasco sauce, watching Perry Mason DVDs, and using plastic scourers for every possible cleaning task, but I couldn’t believe that Heather knew about any of these tightly guarded secrets.
“It’s obvious” she crowed.
“Coffee. With milk froth and chocolate powder. Almost certainly a cappuccino from Alfredo’s around the corner”.
“A-Alfredo’s? I queried, amazed that she had nailed my “habit” so accurately.
“How do you know? Were you spying on me?”
“Not at all” she retorted.
“Although I doubt you would notice if I did. It’s written all over your face”.
“My face?” I said, trying to look cool and unflustered and a bit bored, like Ryan Gosling trying to dance in LaLa Land. “Coffee froth on your upper lip that with obvious traces of powdered chocolate” she answered disdainfully.
“But how on earth did you know it was from Alfredo’s?”
“Elemen…” she began but checked her inflating detective ego.
“Easy” she said.
“Look at your right hand”.
I raised my hand, twisting it to look at my palm and spilling coffee all over the floor.
“Obvious” said Heather with a superior air as she pointed at the takeaway coffee cup, now half empty.
Sure enough it was emblazoned with “Alf’s Coffee – caffeine dealers to the gentry”.
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“You’ve really got to stop rolling around on the lawn. I’ve told you repeatedly you’re highly allergic to rye grass and you must avoid it” said my allergist at my last appointment.
“But Dr Rash, how could you possibly know?” I said.
He was right. I’d taken my lunch time sandwich to the park and it was such a nice day I did lie down on the grass and have a 3 minute power nap. Alright 30 minutes. But I’m sure I wasn’t rolling around.
I was getting a little paranoid now – did he have a drone cam? Was Dr Rash another privacy pirate?
“You have grass all over your back” he said.
“And don’t brush your jacket in here!” Half my patients will have asthma attacks”.
Dr Rash is not known for his tact. Allergists should have a soothing, calming, deep breathing presence. Dr Rash is sort of prickly and irritating.
What was going on?
People seem to know way too much about my every step and misstep. My privacy was definitely being pirated.
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Last week I was using a serrated knife trying to cut the plastic shrink wrap off a cucumber. Sliced cucumber is an essential ingredient in a cheese salad sandwich in my opinion. Its cool crunch is the perfect complement to the smoothness of the butter and the salty tang of the cheese. But why are humble supermarket cucumbers shrink-wrapped like some expensive medicine or the world’s most expensive fluid, printer ink?
OK so my shrink wrap cutting technique is flawed. I always point the knife towards my cuke holding hand while trying to pierce the plastic wrap and saw it off. Every time I cut up a cucumber I say to myself “This time I’ll be really careful and not cut my – – -.
Hand wounds produce a lot of blood as you probably know.
But a roll of good old paper towel can deal with it and staunch the bleeding. Paper towel is staunch in both ways.
It is loyal and steadfast like a staunch friend and it will staunch the flow (of blood in this case). It’s like a nurse in a crisp white roll rather than a crisp white uniform.
Then I applied a bandaid. Problem solved. It was as if nothing had happened. No need to mention it. Private matter. End of story.
“Cucumber in your sandwich?” said my beloved, coming into the kitchen.
How did she know?
Her eyes travelled from the bandaid on my finger to the blood stained paper towel sticking out of the bin to the red tipped knife on the bench .
“Try pointing the knife away from yourself dear” she added with resigned compassion.
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“I bet you filled up the car at pump 3” said Harry as I walked into the club house.
“Pump 3?” I said, upset that this privacy piracy included spying on my buying.
“At the petrol station?”
I knew they had cameras all over the petrol station to deter petrol thieves who filled up and drove off without paying. But how did Harry hack into their security camera video? As far as I knew his only hacking skill was a rather nasty forehand slice (when he didn’t miss the ball all together).
“That’s right, pump 3 at the local BP servo. The automatic cut off doesn’t work and it’s spills fuel everywhere. You smell like a 2-stroke lawn mower. Better go home and have a shower. And I think your tennis shoes are dissolving. Petrol and rubber – bad combination”.
I had been wondering why the soles of my shoes had become super sticky as though I had stepped on a dozen pieces of chewing gum. Unable to play tennis, I took my glutinous shoes to my local Shoeby Dooby Doo shoe repair shop. Sol, the repairer, took one look at my shoes and said “Pump 3 at the local BP?”
I nodded grimly and he shook his head and gave me a thumbs down gesture. “Nothing I can do I’m afraid. You’re the fourth one today”.
This was getting ridiculous and spooky.
Then he added “And don’t forget lunch with Bill – it’s nearly 12:30”.
“How on earth…?” I began.
“You’ve written a note on your hand” said Sol.
I twisted my hand and saw “Bill lunch – 1230” in biro on the back of my hand. Unfortunately I was holding another takeaway coffee. I hurriedly apologized to Sol for spilling coffee all over his shop floor, abandoned my gummy shoes and rushed off to lunch in my socks, my privacy and dignity in tatters, shredded by the privacy pirates.
-Geoff Milton
