Confessions of a Demented Bag Packer

On any given day, I am not very good at packing groceries. If truth be told, I often completely bypass the entire bag packing thing altogether in favour of simply chucking my shopping from the conveyor belt thingy back into the trolley, sans bags.

Not out of pure laziness you understand (although that may come into it). It's just that I somehow nearly always forget to bring my sturdy reusable bags with me - a shame as I now have so many I could happily sell them and make a tidy profit.

If I do remember bags, I'm one of those people who simply stuff everything in wily nily. I admit it, I have no system - a failing considered a very serious offence by right-minded housekeepers who know their raw meats from their honey roasted turkey slices.

I know, deep down that I should separate the frozen goods from the dairy etc etc. so that it's all far more efficient when it comes to unpacking at the other end, but there is something (I suspect it's hardwired in my DNA) which always prevents me from pulling off such a feat of organisational supremacy.

Bearing all this in mind then, being asked to pack groceries in my local supermarket for a Very Good Cause was not something I was looking forward to.

Bloggers, I was dreading it, and with very good reason as it turns out because to say I was appalling doesn't even come close.

Trouble was, besides the fact that my butter fingers became even more buttery than usual, I also talked too much and paid too little attention to what I was doing.
Thus a packet of firelighters somehow became wedged in with fruit - cue gasps from righteous housekeepers everywhere. Not content with committing the cardinal sin of good bag packing, I also perpetrated possibly the worst abomination of all: I dropped a chicken on the floor. In my defence, I still think the poor anemic bird might have been making a last, doomed break for freedom.

So, next year, when someone mentions bag packing for charity I'm going to make a suggestion: nude calendar anyone? It's bound to be less painful. And that chicken could come in very handy to hide behind if I place it just so......

Revenge of the Goldfish

Watched Marley and Me last night and have realised, too late alas, that instead of berating my own mini Marley / aka Charlie the chocoholic Yorkie I should been chronicling his antics and turning the lot into a feelgood movie!!
But all is not lost because we still have two goldfish - Pixie and Lily - to shamelessly exploit.
All I have to do is get them to caper mischievously and I could be in the money this time next year.
I'm thinking "Pixie and Lily on the Loose: The Movie."
Watch this space........

Chocolate Remorse

This morning, I found the dog lying in his bed, looking bloated and mournful.
The air was thick with remorse and there were five, yes five, Thornton's Praline Melts wrappers scattered by his side (significant as he is a Miniature Yorkshire Terrier and his stomach is probably the size of just one praline).
He had somehow managed to break into the packet and help himself. (This sort of thing is a peculiar talent of his - one Christmas he wrestled the lid off a tin of Roses. He was sicking up gilt wrappers for days.)
I hadn't the heart to remonstrate with him today though - after all, I know exactly how he feels: yesterday my own personal choc-fest began with a Creme Egg for breakfast and ended with a Twirl before bed....... Happy Easter everyone.