@BSintolerant Imagine a woman alone in a forrin supermarket, desperate to get home but lost by the yoghurts and with no trolly for her return journey to the shrunken Rangey in the car park because she doesn’t understand the £1 needed to release one. She also hasn’t got a £1 anyway as she swopped her last remaining £1 coin for “time freedom”.
She’s going to have to hope that Mr Scamolopoulos has decided to do his weekly shop in Aldi on the way home from delivering an Egg and Spoon race 3rd place certificate to Uber. There is always hope that when he’s lifting the cheapest nastiest Prosecco into his trolley (3 bottles to cover every social in the FLP summer calendar, with some left over for descaling the kettle), he spots a snotty nosed wailing Yawn, helps her to the tills, buys her shopping for her (offering her uncompetitive repayment terms), steers her out of the shop with his hand clamped over her mouth to stop her saying “you’re all forrin supermarket cunts and I’m going to sue you for my mistake!! Don’t you know who I am??!”. He then bundles her into the shrunken Rangey and still snivelling she does a Live to say how distressed she is that the nasty forrin supermarket has been horrid to her but because FLP is such a generous company they’ve paid for her £14 shopping and helped her get home. All she has to do now is spend every weekend for the foreseeable future in a tent or an empty hotel conference room (not a university) telling bored women in leggings that they can be millionaires if they sell collagen to their Aunty Doris, but once she’s paid off the £14 £50 she now owes she can go back to painting the dog with French Chic and repairing the thatch.
I must say, there’s a familiar ring to this. Has Yawn ever had any other meltdowns in foreign places when she’s ballsed up, do you know?