Bear with me, please, because we’re back in Tesco. I’m a smoker. (Collapse of self-righteous party.)
However, in their wisdom, executive Tescoteers lump smokers, lottery ticket buyers and people returning unsatisfactory loo brushes all together. Same queue. Two ladies behind the counter. There is ALWAYS a queue. Now, my request and its fulfillment are simple. Ask for fags, give money, get fags, leave. I have never ever been first in that queue. It is written on the Doorways of Destiny that whoever is in front of me NEVER has a simple request. Many lotteryites are alarmingly elderly and present last week’s failed ticket stubs. The counter lady points this out. Much fumbling ensues. Correct tickets appear. They – quite a few because the bearer’s doing several equally doddery neighbours a favour – fail as well. Then there’s a wistful, “Ah well, never mind, eh?” and you think YES! one down, seven to go. But not so. Ticket fumbler says, “Oh, while I’m here…” and proceeds to buy enough scratchcards to boggle a whole headful of lice.
Why do these obviously not rolling in it oldies do it? Something to leave the grandkids? Dunno.
And what of the careful shopper who has inadvertently bought a tin of baked beans with a dent in it and would like an undented one. The customer service staffing is immediately reduced by 50% as Janice is dispatched to secure a pristine product. In my local store, baked beans and the like are located a half–day’s march (just past the Pot Noodles, luvvie) away and Janice – big girl, heart of gold, is no track and field star.
Reason enough to give up smoking you may say. But no, because the other day I bought a squeegee mop thing. Used it once. This morning the rubber bit fell off AND all the plastic knobbles which hold it on. So tomorrow, I shall queue-shuffle until its my turn then take great pleasure in saying 40 Marlboro Red, please, pay for them, then just as the person behind me thinks YES !, I shall say, “Whilst I’m here…” And brandish my wonky squeegee. So to speak.