Shopping by Christopher Morrow

To cap an especially shit couple of months, shoulder surgery (bashed up inner workings of shoulder,

cricket) followed by vile shitting disease (recent diagnosis of Crohns Disease), today I really peaked.

I dragged my tired and afflicted body out of the house, into my little car and off to Asda for some well needed sustenance. Yes, I am aware Asda is part of the Walmart Empire and is therefore inherently evil but it is my
nearest supermarket and I am buggered if I am going too far from my home toilet in this current condition.

I have issues with any supermarket all, of course. I despise the spavined in-breds that shop, I use the term loosely, in these places, putting no more thought into it than they would into eating beetles in their native swamps. If I were to ever go postal it would be in the checkout line of a supermarket as yet another troll looks
at the cashier, when asked to pay for the goods just packed, with the fierce glint of a monkey discovering fire for the first time.

"Pay? I have to pay for these items? Blimey! Well, righteo then. I suppose I must have some money in this huge bag of shite I needlessly tote around with me. Now, where could it be? Could everyone else just wait
whilst I root around in the lower strata of this collection of toot endlessly?"

However, for food and drink ... shopping must be done.

I walked around, loading the cart with my essentials. I shall not bore you with them, suffice to say I resisted the urge to go mainly liquid and did pick some healthy gunk I hate because I know I have to. And treated myself to something brown and Scottish and viscous for when I am a little better.

I attempted, forlornly, to pick a queue not populated by the damned but ended up waiting ages anyway.

When my tum finally came I started dumping my stuff as it was scanned into bags and turning to put the bags into the cart, as you do.

This was the point I ripped the intercostal muscles to the left rear of my ribcage.

I dunno if you have ever ripped the intercostal left rear muscles of your ribcage but it bloody hurts, a lot. It
hurts like being stabbed.

I am assuming it hurts like being stabbed as I have never actually been stabbed in the ribs. I have been stabbed twice before but neither time in the ribs. Incidentally neither time was in the line of duty; both times I was stabbed it was socially.

I had to drop the bag, it fell into the cart and I did let out a muffled shriek. Proper, hurty, outrageous pain. I grasped the wire of the cart and leant over it, willing this to be a bad cramp attack.

I have had cramp of the intercostals before, on a physical training event, and it was cured magically, as cramp can be, by the instructor viciously massaging my ribs with his knuckles. I tried to do this to myself as the checkout simian and assorted trolls in the queue looked on. Didn't work.

I had, some perverse pride in me not allowing myself to be lowered to the level of the queue trolls, fill therest of my cart with the minimum of fuss. So I did, in agony.

I thought I was going to pass out as the pain was so sharp and severe but despite pain sweat appearing (this
is not a myth. If you have ever hurt yourself badly enough you know what this is) I didn't.
I managed to pay and then fell away from the checkout. As if afflicted by spongeyformitus of the whole body I
hunched my way into the car park where a terrible wind of nil and a bit miles an hour made the walk to car an
endurance event.

On balance trying to tip the whole contents of the cart into the car boot in one movement was ambitious.
My twisted thought process at the time was "It's going to hurt like fuck anyway and doing it piece by piece will
just hurt many times over. Go for one big hurt and the job is done."
O O O O O O O O O OAfter eventually doing it piece by hurtful piece combined with the massive hurt of the first abortive big lift
I shut the boot.
Took a while to get into the driving seat but I managed eventually. I drove home like a little old lady and
nearly grayed out on making the first right-handed turn out of the car park. You can tell when you are about to
grey out, the peripheral vision starts to go, you feel classically light headed and it all goes a bit grey, funnily
enough. I've been there before with more manly and meaningful injuries. Just about kept it together with will and
got home.

By walking bolt upright and stuffing my fist into the afflicted area to keep it still I got into the house and
frenziedly grabbed the whacky strength pain pills and gobbled them down. I repaired to the chaise longue for a
bit of a sob.

Here in the study is the most comfortable I can make myself as I have a fully adjustable office chair and
desk, marvelous foresight I am now congratulating myself on. This means I can adjust the chair to rivet into my
back so I can't move and thereby induce any more pain. I do have to move of course for minor matters like the
torrential shitting, liquid (must re-hydrate because of the aforementioned shitting) and more pain pills but can do
this by the bolt upright Frankenstein method if I take it slowly.

My main question to the unforgiving gods of the ceiling is "What bloody next? Come on, what is next?
Exploding eyes? What other indignity can you inflict upon me in this couple of months of take the piss out of
Chris? Bring it on, I am still standing! Well, sitting mainly."


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