And we were camm'ed up, miked and carrying ammo on our back packs. I dug my fingers into brown grease paint and swooshed each cheek with a good dollop a piece. I then wrapped a bandana round my head and necked a shot of tequila - god, I looked hard. I almost crapped it when I saw my reflection in the mirror.
Mark and I got into our armoured vehicle (a Renault Modus to be precise) and whizzed into town in slo mo to the sound of painted black by the Rolling Stones. Mark reckoned the theme from MASH would have been more suited but suicide was not on my list of things to do, yet.
We entered the shopping centre and for a Thursday it was still and quiet. It was as if tumbleweed was meant to come rolling in our path to the age old whistle (ala the good, the bad and the ugly) played right on cue. For effect I had a cigarette hanging off my bottom lip and I winced my eyes as I surveyed the soon to be bomb shelled mall. I called on the mike for mark and I to synchronise our watches and that he should run in to the CPW on my call - our code word was : Knobbers
I figured if Mark came in at the rear (yeeeks) it would be all the back up I needed. He served 22 years in the army, he knows his stuff.
Ok, the plan was in place.
I just had to walk in there and talk as nicely and as calmly as possible. So I set off with Mark stood in the shop opposite watching my every move and waiting for my code. He was trying to rummage through La Senza underwear without making it look like he was on some perv drive (and failing miserably). I turned the corner and the bright lights of rip-off-dem blinded me and the smell of bull was certainly in the air. I approached the counter with caution and told Mr sloping-shoulders my sorry tale (for the millionth time). No signs of compassion or understanding was displayed and my finger was tapping on the imaginary trigger in my pocket. All the while I listened to him say that he couldn't do anything, it was up to his Area Manager and that he would try in the morning and he would call me back.
With those very words he had lit the blue touch paper and my head ignited into flames. I reached into my jacked to pull out my lipstick and told him that I wasn't afraid to use it on him. The look in his told me that he wasn't scared (hhhmm, transvestite are we?). I then threatened him with my mother but he didn't flinch. My last resort before "Plan B" was to offer him a bitch slap duel outside but he couldn't leave the counter as he was the only staff in.
I screamed into my collar KNOBBERS! GO! GO! GO!.
A trailblaze of shit hot lava (Mark) entered the shop. Where on earth he got the necklace of artillery shells from I don't know but I have to say he looked fierce. He pulled out one of his old mobile phones (circa 1999) and said
"You take that phone back or I will be forced to use this phone"
The sheer size of that vintage piece was as big as a breeze block with an antenna a mile long. It scared me let alone all of the customers in the shop. Whats more the look of horror on the CPW guy was enough to curdle milk but sadly, with his shoulders sloping further to the floor he really couldn't do anything about it. And as the feds bagged us up in strait jackets I had to admit defeat.
My only saving grace (so far) is that eventually I, myself, rang the shop tonight to check on the progress and James said that CPW would finally and lovingly - no, more than welcomingly take my phone back. I think the drama and the persistence wore off and Im happy to say that CPW have allowed me to stress in ramboness fashion to which they humbly gave in at my expense. I am of course very grateful that I have been able to provide entertainment for you, for the feds, for the mental hospital and for my mother who rang me up last night absolutely wetting herself over my blog entries. I myself need a bloody good spell in a padded sanctuary and hopefully they will confiscate my mobile phone because if I ever have to use one from this day foreword - I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Myself.