There was definitely a faint smell of piss.
That’s not the sort of thing you expect in the check-out queue at Waitrose. It was either the old woman in front of me or God’s way of telling me to start wearing underpants again. It must be the old girl. They’re renowned for it.
I’d popped in at lunch time for a 7 Up and a packet of ‘Donkey Cock’ snacks and didn’t want to spend longer in there than I had to. I breathed out and looked over her shoulder. Jesus, she must have been shopping for the entire Care Home.
I coughed and shuffled, hoping she would turn round, see my purchases and with an “Is that all you’ve got love?” let me go first. No chance.
“Would you like help with packing your bags Madam?” asked Maureen on the till.
“Oh, yes please dear.”
I could have picked her up and cheerfully thrown her over the bread counter. Let me tell you, I’ve been shopping here for nearly ten years, have heard the ‘bag packing’ thing a million times, I have never, ever, ever, EVER heard anyone say “Yes”.
“Whassamatter you rancid old bag, you look capable enough to me!” This of course was a passing thought. I’m British, we’re reserved, we don’t do that kind of thing. Instead, I turned to the guy behind me, pulled a face and let out the required amount of air to register discontent. He, being British and not wanting to cause a scene ignored me.
I tried my luck with a sly look at Maureen but being a Corporate Partner she was oblivious to my tantrum and was on the blower to ‘Packing’, despite my dramatic efforts to draw everyone’s attention to the ‘Sell By’ date on the ‘Donkey Cocks’ which I though was a terrifically amusing.
By now the ‘Packeror’ had shuffled up and to be honest looked no more capable than the ‘Packeree’. If they’d got down on the floor and wrestled, it would have been a draw. After watching most of my lunch hour going up in groceries, the packing finally came to and end with a packet of ‘Werthers’.
“Ninety- seven pounds please Madam.”
“Ninety-seven pounds! I thought old people were supposed to be poor.” I muttered.
“Now where did I put my handbag?”
“Its under that pile of shit you’ve just bought,” said Maureen. (No she didn’t, but it would have been nice.)
“Oh, here it is!” The packet of Werthers went flying. I turned round with dramatic effect to pull some more faces but the rest of the queue had gone to other tills. Probably on their way to the Canaries for Christmas by now.
I had to endure though. The elusive purse. The cash. The lack of cash. The credit card. The pin number. The remembering of dead relatives birthdays to help with the pin number. The finding of more cash in a different purse hole. And then Callooh Callay, she was gone.
The dust settled.
“Good afternoon Sir, thank you for your patience, would you like any help with your packing?”
“Well, let’s start with the ‘Donkey Cocks’ and see how we go from there shall we?”
“Very well Sir. By the way, can you smell urine?”
