Poundland security and royal wedding tat

Yesterday I went shopping at Poundland and the 99p Store at the Broad Street Mall ('cause I run a high-dollar operation here at Casa Groovy). To my surprise, uniformed security guards stalked the aisles at both stores.

One guy sported a headset a la those worn by hipsters pushing chinos at the Gap, the other rocked a beard which he thoughtfully stroked as he scrutinized shoppers as though he'd just landed the inspector role in some new murder-mystery show.

WTF are people stealing at Poundland? What reasoning goes into that? Is someone saying, "Oi, I'm not paying a quid for this Osmonds DVD? No way would I pay more than 50p for that loaf of panettone that's bigger than my head!"

To justify hiring security, the stores must be losing more to theft than the cost of an additional salary. That's amazing.

It kinda harshes my groove if I'm being closely watched by an uber-serious guard while I'm languidly contemplating the pink dish-gloves with the feathered fringe. I'd be an idiot to risk a criminal record to steal them (and probably not much brighter to buy them, which I did. It turns out they look super-cute on but burn my hands as the hot water seems to gain a few degrees when translated to my skin through the thin latex). But apparently some shoppers think it worth the risk. I don't get it.

On a side note, I made a fun find at the 99p store: A William & Kate calendar! I snatched it up from the spot by the register, saying, "This is too funny, I've got to have it!" The stony-faced cashier didn't say anything, which led me to wonder if he was so stony-faced because I'd inadvertently insulted his passion for collecting royal wedding memorabilia, or if it was because working the till at the 99p Store serving crowds of customers all day was wearing thin.

I suppose some take the royal wedding memorabilia and the wedding itself quite seriously. Given that the mementos include everything from condoms to teabags, I gotta think others find it a tad much, too. Since I'm plop in the middle of the country where wedding fever should reach its highest pitch, I choose to enjoy the insanity by collecting whatever (majorly inexpensive) items I come across. I'll take them out one distant day to show American friends who, no doubt, will glance at them and shrug.

Fancy a cup of tea, mate?

Throughout my life, people have offered me tea, at times forcibly. We moved to the Deep South when I was 13, and an old family friend insisted on pouring me a cold glass of the ubiquitous Southern sweet tea. Protests that I didn't like tea brought a laugh and a glass pushed into my hand, as though I'd made a little joke, because who doesn't like sweet tea? To me it looked like rusty water and didn't taste much better. I grimaced and left it on the table.

People went on offering sweet tea and shaking their heads in bemused amazement while muttering about "Yankees" when I turned it down time and again. By my early 30s, I was still a staunch tea-loather when an English boyfriend convinced me it was quite good hot if brewed properly. I wasn't totally convinced, but he was cute and I'm easily swayed. I started drinking hot tea now and then, mainly if I was freezing in an arctic workplace and wanted something with less calories than hot cocoa. (Why are offices kept cold enough to cryogenically freeze the staff, anyway?) I'm pretty sure I wasn't preparing it properly, but at least I was willing to give it a go.

Fast-forward several years and I'm living in England, the land where tea is so popular that many even call the evening meal "tea." It took me quite awhile to figure out that when someone said they were having company for tea, they actually meant dinner and not cups of tea served with scones and jam. And wonder of wonder, no one forces tea on me here.

But as of last week, they don't have to, I actually want it. Thanks to a little glass teapot I bought at Poundland (care to guess the price?), I love making tea, watching it change color, and pouring it out into a big mug. It even seems to taste better than ever before.

The hangup for me was always how to actually make the tea. I knew how to hang a teabag out of a cup of boiled water, but I couldn't figure out those ceramic teapots. Did people put those on the stove to heat the water? That didn't seem right. Did you pour boiling water into it (bingo!), and if so, where did the tea go (would you just leave loose leaves inside, or what?) Turns out there are various methods to deal with that (here's a nice tutorial for other tea numbskulls like me).

However, my magical little cheapie teapot comes with a built-in infuser (a little strainer that fits inside). I can put a teabag or leaves in there. It's especially lovely because the one time I always loved tea was if I went to a restaurant that brought my own small teapot to the table -- I'm totally charmed by that concept, like having my own little tea party. And now I have my own cute teapot and even know how to use it. I've even found a few teas I like, such as white tea and a specialty blend of blueberry and yogurt.

Now if I can only figure out the appeal of dry, dusty scones...

Descent into barbarism in Berkshire

The so-called heat (it was 78F -- that's a heatwave to the Brits) may be why everyone seemed a bit crazy today. My misadventures in how a very little heat can rattle people not used to it began with two guys blocking the door at the post office. One hands over a wad of cash, while the other promises to pay it back soon and pleads with the first man not to lose his passport, as then he won't be able "to get nothin' cashed". The first guy, gripping a huge can of Stella (at a quarter past three in the afternoon), brushes him off with assurances. Now, why would you give someone your passport anyway? "It's better not to know" my husband replied ominously when I told him of the encounter. I'd guess it was some type of loan/collateral situation.

Then my hip-and-happening day took me to Poundland for a microwave egg poacher and a copy of Tommy on DVD for a quid each. While waiting in line, I was treated to "Drunk old dude in Poundland" theater. A little old man in a suit was shouting loudly to the woman checking out at the register next to him: "Do you want me to say it nicely or do you want me to say it rudely?!!!" She went on about how he cut in front of her, and he can't do that just because he'd had a drink, she wasn't going to let him get away with that. He repeated his question a few more times before yelling "F*** off!" a couple of times and teetering out the door.

I'd had enough drama at Poundland, so I toddled off to Boots. On the way there, I heard a woman talking about how "it was like stepping into an oven." I guess she meant the "heatwave." She better never go to Alabama, not even in the winter, if 78 with a cool wind is a heatwave. It's amazing how by the time temps are in the 60s, people pull out the shorts and flip-flops.

A few people were red-faced and pouring sweat from the "heat," and I'll skip my other minor misadventures for now. Let's just say I finished up at the grocery store, bought some wine, and headed for home, far from the madding crowd. Ahh, it's good to be home. When I told all the news to my hubby, he said "Descent into barbarism in Berkshire." Now how can I not post about it when I have a title like that hanging around, eh?

Porn at Poundland

No, I'm not talking about some adults-only club with a graphic name -- Poundland is a store where everything costs £1, kind of like The Dollar Tree in the U.S., except with everything costing twice as much (£1 = $2).

This morning I found shelves overloaded with one-pound porn DVDs, bearing such titles as Suburban Wives 1 and Girls in Uniform 2. But I just noticed I got Suburban Wives 1 *Volume 2*. Oh no! Will the story still make sense if we didn't see Volume 1 first? Ditto with the other DVD, as it's part 2, Volume 5. They also had Suburban Wives sequels through to No. 7. Hubby wondered if they manage to carry the characters' storylines successfully through to the end. Hmm, I'm guessing there are no storylines.

I arrived home to tell my hubby what a good wife I am. Yes, I was out spending his money. But hey, I also bought him porn. At Poundland. You want to hand some surly cashier a pile of cheapo porn? Ok, maybe some of you do that regularly anyway. But in my case, that shows love, man. And I wasn't really embarrassed; you may recall me blogging about how this store sold vibrating stuffed penises with smiling faces around Valentines' Day, in among all the other fare you normally see at a dollar store (or 2-dollar store, in this case). So I think the cashiers have seen it all. And after we watch these films, I will have, too.