Excuses, excuses...

I went on a shopping spree today (sorry, Dan, to break it to you this way, but thanks for reading!).  It's always a bit of a frenzied affair when I shop at one of the local shopping centres - for one thing, I'm usually getting as much as I can done before my four-year-old daughter, Erin, loses it.  And she's a fairly patient girl in the scheme of things, I'm just terribly indecisive and try to pack everything into that one particular shopping trip. It would help, too, if I stuck to my agenda - even if I'm organised enough to take a list, invariably I will deviate shockingly.

The list usually reads something like: 

Kmart:    New school jumper and birthday present

Reject Shop:  Plastic tubs to replace broken ones

Coles:  Bread, milk, cheese, pullups

Sportsgirl:  Return faux fir hooded vest from last frantic shopping expedition

The actual trip usually reads something like:

Kmart:  Get distracted by homewares sale, can't find jumper and forget birthday present
Reject Shop:  Emerge half an hour later with packets of stickers and a new peg basket - can't find lid to match tub.
Food court:  Milkshake to keep Erin off my back
Coles:  Smoked salmon, dips and crackers, quince paste, scented body lotion, a double adaptor, soda water and limes for vodkas
Sportsgirl:  Forgot receipt so can't get a refund.
Food Court:  Hot chips to keep Erin off my back, coffee to give me more shopping energy
Myer:  Scan for sales, buy end of season coat for one of the kids that won't fit them next year.

JB HiFi:   Wander around looking at CDs and DVDs, knowing full well that will just download anyway

Liquorland:  Pick up some "bargain" reds

etc, etc......until Erin chucks a wobbly, and I'm forced to make my way out to the car, struggling with bags of useless items.

Unfortunately, the two major shopping centres in our area have a 3 hour free parking period, after which time you pay extortionate parking fees that double with each extra hour you spend (yes, spend $$$$ in their shopping centre - just don't get me started on how outlandish I find that set-up).  Even more unfortunate is my tendency to squeeze in so much shopping that I'm often sprinting for the car, dragging a traumatised Erin behind me, in the final minute of my free 3 hours.  It's always at that moment that Erry needs to go to the loo, and it absolutely can't wait, and I'm weighing up the most annoying outcome - urine-soaked clothing or paying five bucks for parking.

But no, that's when it's time to draw on my extensive collection of excuses for the person at the other end of the info button on the paying machine.  Today I was 15 minutes over and I declared to the young and nonchalent sounding parking-machine boy, in my most fraught and haggard voice, that I had "trouble finding the exit, as I'm not from around here".  I mean, come onnnnn.  He obviously didn't even think that corker warranted a response, as he simply opened the gate without questionning my very questionnable excuse.  I had to do a witch-cackle on my way through the raised boomgate after that one. 

Usually I don't endorse lying, but when it comes to worming your way out of dishonorable practices such as Westfield parking fees, I admit I feel no guilt whatsoever.  It's not the first time I've duped my way through the boomgates, either, with past excuses including "having no money left, no credit card and no keycard" (and no clue), and "getting caught in the elevator".  I'm sure if there is a camera involved in this whole scenario I'm invariably dismissed as a dumb blonde or a batty shopoholic who can't find her way out of a car park.

There was that far more astute guy at the Charlestown Square boomgate box, who seemed to be more clued onto serial parking fee skippers like me, and grilled me on my (admittedly less elaborate) excuse of having no money left - seeming disbelieving of my announcement that I have no credit card, and curtly declaring that he has now taken a photo of my number plate, and will keep it on file for any future attempts at absconding.  OK, mate, just let me through....and get a life.

The thing I love about excuses, is that the more elaborate the better - everyone knows you're telling a porky, so why not provide some entertainmnet at the same time?  I can just imagine the guys getting together at the end of a hard shift at the end of the boombox speaker and comparing notes on the pathetic excuses they've heard that day.  I suspect most of them (except maybe that one guy at Charlestown), don't really give a toss whether you pay or not, but the challenge is always there to spin an extravagant tale of poverty and woe. 

Hey, it's a fiver I'd rather have in my pocket.