I was in fairly high spirits last night, following my hard work in the house. I don't remember being so motivated and efficient at DIY jobs when I used to work on my house in Newcastle. That was a long time ago, and maybe I was more prissy, and maybe my larger size meant that I spent more time huffing and puffing than actually doing anything useful. Who knows. Maybe I was just as effective, but maybe the fact that I was aiming to paint walls meant that they needed more preparation.

I've just gone totally off the point.

This is not the bit about the DIY, this is the bit about the post-DIY haze, when I went out to get food and fresh air - my nose full of dust. I went to Subway and ordered an expensive sandwich. The people in there have worked out that I go there virtually daily, and they were nice to me. They didn't have any parmesan cheese for my sandwich, so offered me a discount. I pointed out that I already had a discount - better than the one they were offering. They tried to offer me some other sort of recompense for a lack of this condiment. I pointed out that they didn't need to, especially since I was prepared to buy more stuff both as part of that order, and in future. They know that I need them more than they need me. Still, I tried to make it understood that I was thankful that they were being nice, but that they simply didn't have to give me anything. I like going to the shop and I like the people there.

I sort of lied, though. I do like going there, but I'm actually getting a bit sick of it. It might be good for an occasional, or even frequent treat, but I feel like I've done Subway now. A bit of variety might be better. Plus, although it can be healthy eating, I'm frequently tempted not to eat healthily there.

Still, I'll have a weekend away from Subway, and maybe next week I'll get some chicken from somewhere. For a change, like.

So, relating this to the title of this post, which was my original plan for what I was going to write about, I would say that Subway is a convenient shop and I like going there. So, not worthy of the title.

After I'd dropped into my old house for a shower and to bestow my washing upon the place (I think "bestow" is a good word to use in conjunction with washing), I decided to get some fruit juice to drink. I was still thirsty after my sandwich, and I don't like to drink cola or coffee after 10pm, since I think it does keep me awake. Aware that I'd like to have a lot of Zinc in my diet (I have no idea why I'd like that) I decided to get the nice Minute Maid raspberry juice that comes with Zinc supplement. I buy it often from the garage down the road. I like garages that are open all night, they're convenient. They have a reasonable range of stuff you can buy and they're like little islands of open in a sea of closed businesses in the night.

Sometimes, the garage is on night pay. I hate night pay. I won't buy stuff there when it's on night pay. I don't like being denied the right to browse. I want to be allowed into a shop. I'm not a criminal. I've been buying stuff at that garage for the last 14 months. I should be allowed to go in whenever I want. I'm always polite.

Still, the garage was on night pay and, for the first time ever, I decided to stop there and use the night pay. I queued patiently. A conversation in the queue ahead of me, alerted me to a new wrinkle in their night pay policy - the ultimate insult to the late night shopper. I'll give you a script to illustrate how sodding ludicrous this policy is. This isn't quite the conversation that happened, as I was already wise to things when I got to the front. This is what would have happened.

Me: Hi there. Can you go and get me some of that Minute Maid raspberry drink I buy.
Him: Sorry sir, I can't go into the shop.
Me: Surely, it's me that's not allowed in the shop, owing to the fact that you've closed the doors, and pulled the shutters, and forced me to talk to you through a hatch. Surely you are actually the only person allowed in the shop.
Him: No sir, I'm not able to go into the shop.
Me: But you ARE in the shop.
Him: No, I'm behind the counter.
Me: But the rest of the shop is right there. The other side of the counter.
Him: But I can't go into it. I'm here alone.
Me: And?
Him: Well, if desert the counter, then what might happen?
Me: I don't know. Surely, what would happen is that you'd go and get something I want to buy and then give it to me after I've paid you for it. Through the hatch.
Him: I can't desert my post.
Me: Ah. I get it. There might be a chance that, while your back is turned, one of the customers turns into a gas, slips through the hatch, turns back into human form and then steals some Snack A Jacks from the display, or perhaps a copy of the magazine "Reveal".
Him: I just work here.
Me: Unless I want cigarettes or petrol, your working here isn't going to provide me with any value.
Him: I'm sorry about that.
Me: This truly sucks.

So, I went to the convenience store down the road and bought some Tropicana grapefruit juice. I am still gobsmacked that the night pay system even precludes getting stuff that's the other side of the counter. Ridiculous. I understand why they have night pay. When there's only one person on duty, they have to protect the staff and the stock, a single-handed worker isn't enough for that. However, it's totally inconvenient and insulting to trade with people on this basis. I'm not a criminal. I'm not even slightly evil. Maybe we should have some sort of membership system. I'd get a card saying I'm allowed in any BP garage that's open.

Maybe I'll write to BP.

Or maybe I'll shop elsewhere.