Last Saturday morning I nipped to our local convenience store. The same store I swore I’d never set foot in a month ago because the father, who sometimes serves behind the counter, coughs and spits in the bin. Exactly.
I purchased the newspapers two packs of bacon and some buns and went away happy. Back home, Karen and Tara were in the kitchen chilling out, watching cartoons and reading magazines.
I opened the bacon, both packets, and it was lifting. I mean, I had to turn my face away from the smell. I shouted Karen over who confirmed my diagnosis and I hurled the lot in the bin and sat down with a coffee and the papers.
Half an hour later, I needed to go out. Some lame excuse, but I had to go and complain. You have to, don’t you? There are some things, no matter what the actual expense, that you can’t let go. Proper piss takes.
Here’s me waiting in line, and here we go,
‘You know that bacon I just bought?’
‘Aye.’
‘It was off. Absolutely stinking.’
‘Never in the world. Where is it?’
‘Well, in the bin, you couldn’t eat that.’
‘Oh, there’s nothing I can do, son, unless you bring it back so we can send it off.’
‘I’m hardly going to march around with stinking bacon in my hand, am I?’ (some serious jokes could come off that line).
‘I’ll have a word with him, see what he says.’
‘Okay then, I’ll be back later.’
I’ve shopped on and off there for six years or so. Say a tenner a week minimum. So what’s that, three grand-ish? And they’re going to see what HE says. I put the soap box in the back of the car and returned home.
Karen and Tara were even more chilled, so I quickly let the steam out of my ears with a short outburst, then slunk onto the settee with a paper. Half an hour passed and Karen turned her page and casually said, ‘I’m going to tell you something and you’re going to go of it.’
‘Course I’m not, don’t be ridiculous. What’s up?’
‘The buns you bought this morning are covered in mould.’
I examined them and they were mouldy. Green nasty filthy robbing ******* mould.
This can only end two ways. One, they see the light and be half reasonable and give me my cash back. Which is right, after all, because their goods were shit, or, two, I tell them to do one and that I’ll never step foot in the place again. And on top of that I will put the fear of God up them by telling them that a Tesco Extra is opening up the road.
After work I’m going to the post office, then to put the lottery on, then to collect my bacon-money. I’m not a jobs-worth and I don’t always stand up for the little man in the street, but you’ve got to admit, this is slightly annoying.
Gary
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