Wednesday, July 22, 2009


Sometimes you come across people that you don't like.

There's no rational reason, but they make you squirm a little, and you think that if they touched you, you'd scream and flail your arms and sob a little bit, and maybe even hiss like an angry possum.  And you couldn't help yourself, even though important people might be watching who might one day want to offer you a job, a tasty treat, or even help you load your Billy bookcases into the back of your car in the Ikea carpark when you're so clearly struggling with the weight of the flatpack and the nausea of a belly full of Swedish meatballs.

There is such a man who works in one of my favorite supermarkets.  It's a supermarket I really like because it reduces cheeses quite significantly on a Tuesday when they're nice and ripe, and I can buy six cheeses for the price of two, and then I can go home with a flush of "reduced to clear" triumph, before the "oh no, how am I going to eat all these before tomorrow" dread sinks in.

My nemesis works on the checkout.  Always the checkout I end up at.  If I choose one that has a nice looking lady on it, he will arrive after I've unloaded my trolley and send the lady on a break.  

He has beady eyes in a head that is too big for his skinny pale frame, and he judges me with a piercing stare as each electronic beep registers another of my cheesy conquests.  I want to look at my feet, but daren't take my eyes off him, lest one of my prizes is scanned at full price.  When he's done, he flashes his very pointy teeth as he asks if I want any cash out.  I shake my head too quickly and stand there with James Mathison eyes until he hands me my receipt with his pale claw.

It's very fortunate that I have cheese when I get home, because nothing else can comfort and gruntle me.

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