mostly david ephgrave

While I have no issue with how people perceive my masculinity, I draw the line at asking the staff in Wilkinson where they keep their feather dusters. (To me, not stocking them wasn't an option.) The problem is I know, for some unfathomable reason, I'm perceived by the man-on-the-street as a level-pegging amusing / perplexing mash-up, and that’s before I’ve even opened my mouth. So why would I want to unnecessarily contribute to my gauche appearance? It’s practically science. What made things worse was, even though the duster was the only item I wanted, I still picked up a shopping basket. This put me in a no-win situation: if I had nothing in it when I questioned the staff - or worse, when I reached the counter - I’d somehow be underlining my ridiculous purchase. The only way out was to find where they stored their camp cleaning implements by myself and pad out my plunder with other products (much like buying porn). That's ...

Yesterday, I spent twenty minutes incapacitated in Wilko car park because I had a bit of grit in my eye; I sometimes wish the ground would swallow me up. The Theatre of Conflict. The most annoying part, besides the grit, was the fact I’d made a conscious decision to leave my bag in the office rather than take it with me, which I’d otherwise always do. If I’d taken it, I would have had a bottle of water and some tissues with which to construct an ad hoc eyewash. Instead, all I could do was rub it (my eye, that is); blinking constantly while tugging at my eyelid. I genuinely felt trapped. I couldn’t go in the shop without looking strange, and I couldn’t stay where I was without seeming suspicious. I ended up walking to the far end of the car park to where I’d be almost out of sight, but this only made things weirder. Every so often, someone would come out of shop's exit and walk past at me; keeping a fully-functioning eyeball trained on my definite questionability. It w...

There are few things bleaker than buying scourers in Wilkinson, five minutes before it closes on a Sunday, while Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game plays over the Tannoy. Actually, I can think of one situation that's more dismal: trying to get to sleep while a neighbour throws a late-night party in the flat above; leading his friends in a singsong of Chris Issak’s Wicked Game on his acoustic. (The paragraphs above were based on true stories.) Wilkinson's a difficult place to stomach at the best of times (there goes the chance to appear in one of their adverts). The shop floor lighting doesn’t help as it sets off my Labyrinthitis, which is appropriate, as the aisles seem to get narrower and more maze-like, the longer I stay there. I also find it irritating that ‘Wilko’ is now it’s official name; Can't they let us choose our colloquialisms by ourselves? What are we supposed to shorten their name to now? "Wilk?" (That just...

I spotted this in Wilkinson’s yesterday. As wedding cards go, it’s pretty pessimistic. I’m not sure whether it’s intended for the bride or groom. If it’s for her, it’s saying ‘you’re marrying a man with zero intelligence’, and if it’s for him, it’s saying ‘YOU HAVE NO HOPE. GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN’ . Neither is a sound basis for a long-lasting relationship. Let’s hope it’s the former option, as the latter is more sinister. There’s a slim chance it’s aimed at potential newlyweds with a fiancé who's sans head. You can get cards for anything these days. If that's the case, it's a ceremony you’d want to rush through. No use staving off the big day until the distant future. In reality, this was the only card on the rack where bodies outnumbered heads two-to-one. I wonder how it managed to get past quality control. Presumably the same way it got past the cashier, who didn’t bat an eyelid. He must have...

If you’re stuck for a suitable Christmas gift for your nearest and dearest, what could be better than an outsized wooden ampersand? I spotted them on sale in Wilkinson at the weekend. The shelves were chock-full of the product; presumably in anticipation of the festive rush. I shouldn't have been surprised by this: surely no household is complete without a teak-stained, ornamental conjunction. Now's a good time to stock up, while their price has been slashed to £4; it would be foolish to ignore a 50% discount. There’s also no harm in indulging in a bulk-buy; a plus point of wooden wording is its slow degradation rate. They also make the perfect gift. Don’t tell Glyn, but I've got one earmarked for his Christmas present. It can be the ‘&’ of Doggett & Ephgrave.