Ah! The problems I have with passwords… I’ve had to change it four times in a few weeks for here. *tears hair* I am too lazy to keep thinking up new ones.

K, was stalked by some random telephone-number-dispersing woman in the supermarket this evening. Mother always said the crazies come out at night, my presence further emphasising that point, but I’ve not had problems prior to now.

Well. Just call me grumpy, old and intolerant. At least two of those are true. Definitely at least grumpy.

If you saw, say, Magneto in your local supermarket, perusing the freshness of Farm-fresh eggplants in the produce aisle with his little metal hat on, would your first thought be “OOH! A FRIEND I HAVEN’T MET YET!”? I think not. I avoided her gaze for as long as I could help, but she requested help reading something, and my manners wouldn’t allow me to refuse a politely-phrased request, no matter how much I didn’t feel like talking to a woman who looked like a dead dandelion stuck on top of a ball of black doileys. 

 
After clearly fishing about for a starting point for conversation (big hint for me of her mental state as I was clearly the last person to start talking to)

(like the earphones that I wasn’t taking out weren’t hint enough), we struck up a conversation. That is to say, I looked at the printer cartridges while she struck up a conversation. Whacked it, actually.

 
She commented on how much she liked my hair, at which point I discovered the true depths of her sheer and frightening madness; or perhaps she was only blind, which might go some ways to explain what she was wearing, but clearly not far enough. Then she proceeded to detail how much she loved hair

(producing unhelpful mental images of Crispin Hellion Glover and his angelhair fetish)

And playing with it

(proceeding to Jame Gumb)

and she asked me where I lived (naturally, I lied through my teeth)

and quite a few other things I don’t choose to recall in the same inane vein

(Dahmer anyone? You just don’t talk about those things in a supermarket. You just don’t.).

 
VERY EXPTREMELY OBSESSIVELY LONG story short, and after rummaging in her hideously large purse for a pen so she could give me her phone number*, I… went and hid in the frozen foods section for a while. Sad but true. She was quite… enthusiastic about listing her talents as a hairdresser, where she’d gone, been… done… etc.  

 
Amusingly enough, as I was leaving, the checkout girls were discussing her too. As in, “She seems lovely…” *STRAINED AND POINTED SILENCE* Glad I wasn’t the only one. No more late shopping, no matter what sushi I want at three in the morning.

 
*A mobile, as for some reason.. she… didn’t have a phone? Yes, certainly I’ll come visit you. Of course I won’t tell anyone, and rohypnol sounds like a wonderful addition to tea. No, I don’t really need my liver.