TIRED OF WAITING (standard:humor, 2719 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 02 2002	Views/Reads: 4166/2345	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A queue-hating man's unfortunate dilemna as he waits in line for a bargain.

After much deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that life is one
long queue. As children, we are introduced to the irritating act of 
waiting in queues. Shops, sports events, cinemas, rock concerts, you 
name it and there will be a chain of eager, brainwashed subjects 
shuffling along slowly, wasting more precious minutes in their life 
span. 

Making that dreaded phone call to a leading company for instance. You
are first put on hold, before having a choice of buttons to push, 
before then being connected to another line, where you are faced with a 
similar choice. Eventually, if you are one of the lucky ones to have 
gotten through, you are again placed on hold, listening to some 
irritating music, usually Greensleeves, or some other drivel. I believe 
that the reason the soothing music is bestowed upon us is to calm us 
down after much swearing and slapping the phone. 

When finally you do hear that live voice, who does not seem to give a
shit, you're either transferred to another number, where you face 
another two minutes of Greensleeves, or they baffle you with a 
vocabulary of incomprehensible words. 

I wonder how long we spend in our lives waiting in queues and on the
phone. The mind boggles. Even now, we are waiting in a long queue, 
waiting to die. My hatred of queues only stemmed last January. My 
ordeal committed me to being a serial queue hater. I will not entertain 
them. I either send my wife, or one of my three children to join the 
queue of life. 

Yes, January 2nd 20I1 will always haunt me. It was to be my Armageddon.
Whilst trying to browse through the local newspaper with a king-sized 
hangover, I came across the advertisement that would change my life. 
The January sales section took my eye, especially the 256MB RAM PC with 
DVD ROM/CD Rewriter drive, printer and scanner. Surely, there had been 
a mistake. One hundred pounds! I knew I had to have that PC. 

I arrived outside Wilson's department store that afternoon, kitted out
like I was going on an expedition to the Arctic. A fine smattering of 
snow was falling from the dark sky, transforming the grey High Street 
into a children's dreamland. There was not much activity going on, as 
most people were either at the pub or inside, watching the box in front 
of their warm fires, chewing on a mince pie and pulling the last of 
their crackers. 

I was lucky, I was the first in the queue, and I arranged my sleeping
bag in the doorway. It was bitterly cold and I was glad of my Parka, 
two sweaters and extra pair of trousers. Even so, I was still 
shivering, and it was only three 'o'clock in the afternoon. 

I poured myself a cup of hot soup from my flask and settled down to read
a Steinbeck novel with one eye closed, the results of my excessive 
drinking the night before clearly still affecting me. 

I had barely read the first page when I felt the presence of someone
standing over me. The stench was unbearable. I raised my eyes and took 
in the sight before me. He was a large man of about forty-years with a 
scruffy beard and long, straggly, unwashed hair. He was wearing a long 
green overcoat tied around the waist with string. At least, I think it 
was green, as it was so soiled. It was more a greenish brown. His boots 
looked World War II and probably were. 

He rubbed his hands together and I was aghast, when he slid down the
wall and sat besides me. "George Francis," he said, as he offered his 
grubby hand. 

I reluctantly accepted it and immediately regretted my action. The
strong odour of fish nauseated me. I wanted to puke after I sniffed my 
hand. 

"Two peas in a pod, eh," he said in a Scottish accent. 

"Excuse me?" I replied. 

"Well me and you, both a victim of this corrupt society. New Years day
and would you look at us? Homeless and starving." 



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