Many months ago, Becky swore off ever visiting the local Mitre 10 ever again. We used to spend quite a bit of money there, it being rather convenient and full of useful stuff for our pitiable attempts at sorting out our unruly suburban outdoors.
So we stopped going after one particular trip when Bella tripped and fell on a piece of broken glass inside the store, gashing her leg through her tights. The store manager was not overly sympathetic and refused to accept any responsibilty for leaving broken glass lying around. So we thought: Fuck him.
Fast forward to today, where in extremis Becky’s Dad and I returned there for some emergency long weekend project supplies. On a whim, I decided we needed seven bags of crushed lime pebbles (I regretted this impulse as I was carrying them down our steps, I can tell you) for the pathway through Becky’s herb garden.
The karmic roundabout part came later in the afternoon, when I checked the docket. It turned out we’d only been charged for one of the seven bags – and the difference in dollars was almost exactly the same as the cost, all those months ago, of Bella’s emergency clinic consultation and pair of new tights.