"Errr... have you seen what she's given him?" the Geordie Rat asked put-upon looking boyfriend after I'd just finished serving her equally vacuous son last night at work, and was still raw from the intense physical scars endured by merely completing a transaction with some one so shockingly devoid of any sort of manners or social skills.
Given him? What had I given him? Whatever it was, she seemed pretty indignant at her son's receipt of such an item? I was worried. To provoke such a reaction, it must have been something pretty bad...
Maybe he's a heart surgery patient in a very fragile post-operative state and I'd given him a shock?
Maybe she didn't read my lanyard properly, assumed my name was Gemma and that in touching my hand to receive his change, I'd inadvertently given him some uncomfortably embarrassing venereal disease, resulting fortnight of itching in unsightly locations before the anti-biotics kicked in?
Maybe I'd become momentarily confused; muddled betwixt the cold, harsh reality of the shop floor and my imaginary safe-haven, where I routinely dish out social justice and given him a swift smack in the mouth?
I'd given him a Scottish £5 note as part of his change.
I hate gypsies.
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