I’m not a woman of many words today, and considering what just happened, this is probably a good thing.
All I wanted was a ham and cheese toastie. Not a difficult request, and yet today, apparently it was.
What I meant to say: “A ham and cheese toastie good man and loyal Tesco member of staff!”
What I actually said:
How the fuck did that happen?!
When did I reach the age where I could no longer control either my mouth or the amount of saliva that exited ( and entered, in somewhat more dubious and frivolous younger days) it?
A moment of confusion and disorientation followed as we both processed what reaction would be appropriate.
My options were limited.
I still hadn’t got out the order for the toastie, so at that moment in time, I was nothing more than a strange ‘lady’ who had walked up to the cafe counter and essentially gobbed over a bloke who was simply trying to do his job. Did I casually saunter off without so much as another murmur, leaving him nothing other than a mental scar and an exaggerated fear of women in Lindy Bop dresses? Or did I do the terribly British thing and pretend it never happened?
There were a few seconds of highly uncomfortable eye contact. A brief ‘telepathic’ conversation and then we both decided.
The British Thing. Every time.
With more gallantry than the Milk Tray Man, he grabbed the sandwich I was pointing to through the glass front of the counter and gestured at me to sit down. At the table. Far far away on the other side of the room whilst he prepared my feast. In all fairness, he could have slapped the bread onto my cheeks and got them cooked much quicker, such was the fire and flame that my total shame was burning with.
For the record, it was a great toastie.
I’ve decided not to return to that particular branch of Tesco for a wee while. At least not until I’ve had the chance to change my hair colour and invest in some dark glasses, and some sort of permanent perspex safety surround.