Local Woman Finds Drug Stash While Walking Dog

I saw it. It wasn’t visible from the street. It was down a bit before the massive playing field and wedged in a sunny spot between two trees. Whomever had put it there probably didn’t count on someone approaching it from the north side. Maybe they’d left it there at night?

I thought it a disposable nappy at first, wrapped in a supermarket bag. It made me angry as I stabbed at it with my hand, forced to bend over making my knickers slip off my bum, requiring a serious effort to hoik them back up. There was a rubbish bin only two metres away, why couldn’t they have put it in there? It was then I realised it wasn’t a nappy.  Wrapped in thick white paper within the bag, it was hard with a sloshing sound when I shook it. Suddenly it occurred to me that it could be drugs stashed there to be picked up later on. I tore a bit of paper back to reveal a glass jar with a thick milky white substance. I daren’t take the lid off. Maybe it was a first step in preparing crushed up pharmaceuticals in some toxic liquid, ready for the next person to dry it out or whatever? Then take it further by providing drugs for all and sundry to become addicted to, maybe even my children or grandchild?!

I couldn’t let this become the case. Feeling paranoid, I stuffed it in my jacket and walked briskly, an obvious jar shape looking like a droopy but firm third breast. I became aware of what was around me; a confused looking backpacker with a map, and a runner with poised bag waiting for her chihuahua to crap.  None appeared to have seen me, but I felt conspicuous with the blood rushing through my head with a whamp! whamp! whamp! in my ears.

I slunk along the tree line at the edge of the park. Panic made me throw myself under a bush when the chihuahua runner sprinted past me. I lay low for a while to catch my breath, especially since the impact of landing on the jar winded me a little. It then occurred to me that these substances could become explosives. They blow up houses and stuff don’t they? A new horror set in. I’d have to move very slowly and carefully until I reached home and got it to the police.
My god, I’m like a suicide bomber in the mean time. Everybody stay away!
My dog by now, must have thought I was completely bonkers. I stuck to the trees, getting dive-bombed by fantails. ‘Get out!’ I yelled at them. Didn’t they realise how serious this was? I got shit on three times in the process.

It dawned on me that I could have been spotted and the drug makers are following me, ready to take me down. It could be weeks before my rotting corpse was found in the bush. I removed the plastic bag carefully from the jar and began to hyperventilate in it,  nearly choking on my own spit in the process.
I had to carefully plot my course home without being detected, but if I stuck to the outside of the playing field like I was doing, it would take me all day. If I had my phone, I’d have called the police. They’d come in with sirens howling and save the dog and I, recovering the stash then putting us in the witness protection program. All would’ve been hunky dory.

I decided to leg it, bomb or no bomb. The dog thought it was Christmas. He’s never seen me run. Granted, it was no more than a slow jog that nearly killed me. In hindsight, the bomb may have been quicker and painless.
At home I thought I’d better have a closer look before I took the lethal cocktail to authorities.

Please accept this as a personal apology to the person whom left their kefir grains sitting in a warm spot while they went to the Saturday morning markets.

Advertisements

Damn you technology…

I’m a patient woman. I actually started this blog three years ago. I signed up with ‘someone else’ and it became so complicated with this and that and working out what went where. I thought it was all my fault for months and felt guilty. I didn’t want to be that person calling every five minutes after pushing a wrong button. I finally plucked up the courage to contact them and found out it was their fault all along.
‘We are very sorry, ma’am, thanks for calling the helpline’.
It was all just too much. I paid a fortune in advance and never even made my first post. I anxed myself to inaction for way too long. Their promo video about its simplicity was a load of lies, the s***-kickers.
Plus, I hate being called ma’am.

I’d love to be that person asking for what they want and knowing their rights. Give honest feedback, logically, sensibly, critically, helpfully… all in a way that makes all parties feel like they haven’t been given a wrath suppository by a head-spinning, froth-spitting minion of satan. I start imploding and feel the pent up ‘roid rage of a weightlifter, then this fragile ferret voice comes from nowhere and I find myself saying, ‘it’s okay, no problem.’

I’m not technology challenged, I’m choice challenged. Don’t give me options, give me results. Read my mind. Correctly. I sound like a millenial, but I’m not. I’m 48, going on 70.

The day my youngest child started primary school in 2000, I went to university. To get back into the print graphic design industry I’d left for motherhood in 1989, I’d have to learn to use a computer. Two degrees later without learning web design for my up-skilled design career, I was still up s*** creek without a paddle. I can’t tell you how many jobs I missed out on because ‘graphic designer’ and ‘web designer’ decided to marry and have a child called ‘bloody-superperson-who-can-do-everything-designer-would-you-like-some-fries-with-that-while-I-whip-you-up-a-quick-animation-thingy-for-your-sidebar-and-order-your-business-cards?’.

Turns out I’m not one of those mathy-coding type people. I hear numbers and gobbledy-gook going in, and I can’t see it or place it anywhere in this physical realm that resembles anything that feels like home. It’s like asking me what the colour of number nine smells like.
HTML… <blah blah blah bladdy blah blah stick it up your bum>

I hope I never have to eat my words on that one.