Waitrose on Western Road. The checkout lady asks me if I’ll need some bags. I ask for two.
The woman in the queue behind me, the sort of forty-something social worker type who puts the ‘right on’ into Brighton tuts. She then chides me for not bringing reusable bags: ‘we all need to make small changes to save the planet.’ I pack my groceries up, and eye what Ms Righton is buying (two bottles of wine, strawberries, asparagus, two newspapers and a big cake) and saunter out to walk home slightly cross.
I dawdle a bit before I walk up the hill home past the Waitrose car park entrance where a big shiny volvo containing only the driver is edging out. The driver waves me across the entrance: it’s Ms Righton. I think of a few small changes she might like to make.
English wine, strawberries and asparagus? Thought not.
I spend a lot of my life suffering the death of 1000 small indignation’s of not saying smart smarmy replies.
Either a
– Lovely strawberries, who thought you could get them local and fresh this time of the year.
– Nice cake. Hope you don’t die young from heart disease.
– Hello? Excuse me? Why are you talking to me? Go lecture someone else you annoying busy body.
And what is wrong with Volvos?!!!
*drives a very nice big shiny Volvo…!
Should have asked her the airmiles of her vino. prob Oz.