A Local Shop For Local People

Yesterday the sun shone.  And I had to go to the supermarket.  I had to go to the supermarket rather than the Local Shop, because we had no lavatory paper, due to the DC being at home for a few days, and no gin, due to a visit from the Farmers. 

Although the Local Shop sells both these items, due to the idiosyncrasies of their 'colourful' staff, I cannot purchase either of these things in there.

I can't buy loo roll, because the assistant known as Mad Ann became convinced many years ago that I am someone called Alice, who has terrible problems with my 'waterworks' as she calls them.  So every time I enter the shop when Ann is there I am greeted loudly as 'Alice' before being quizzed at length as to the state of my waterworks today.  Any attempts to deny that I have a problem 'down there' (her other discreet euphemism, to be bellowed at the top of her voice, and accompanied by a knowing nod towards the afflicted area), are met with a sigh of "You're so brave, Alice dear." 

To buy bog roll from Ann would be to endure an even more detailed barrage of questions about the waterworks.  I can, however, buy gin from Ann, who hands it over with a sympathetic pat of the hand, clearly believing it is medicinal. 

Somewhere out there, is a woman called Alice with troublesome waterworks who is probably quite relieved now just to be known as Cassandra the borderline alcoholic. 

So if Ann is on, I can buy gin but not lavatory paper.  If however, it is another assistant, the one we call Giant Boy, I can buy loo roll unremarked, but any attempt to purchase alcohol is met with a salacious wink and a lascivious remark of "Looks like you're planning a good night, what time shall I pop round eh?" 

Knowing he says this to every female customer who crosses his path, in no way make this less creepy, or makes me less inclined to shout "NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER!!!!"  and go home and scrub myself with Dettol.

I can buy nothing from the third assistant, the unimaginatively named 'Tiny Boy' as he seems to have had an traumatic experience with every item in the shop, which he will insist on recounting to you.  Even buying a tin of Green Giant sweetcorn from him almost reduced him to tears, as he informed me "My mum said if I ate that, I'd grow up big and strong.  I didn't" 
I can't even begin to imagine what tales he could tell about gin and bog roll. 

So rather than planning multiple visits at various times of day to complete my purchases unremarked, I trundled my 4x4 supermarket-wards.  As I mentioned the sun was shining, and I had forgotten that Town people react to this differently to Country people, even those only affecting to be Country. 

In the Country, we swathe ourselves year round in many layers of tweed.  Our boots are plentiful and not cast aside lightly.  Perhaps after a week or two of a heat wave, we may remove the outer layers of tweed, and possibly tentatively swap the knee boots for an ankle boot.  If we feel very daring, we may eventually go bootless altogether and brave an adorable ballet pump.  Finally, we may strip off as far as our shirtsleeves.  But no more.  More than that would be madness.  Madness.

In the towns though, they have no such decorum.  At the first hint of sunshine, it appears everyone must strip down to their knickers, regardless of their girth, and parade around shamelessly.   Acres upon acres of wobbling flesh were flopping around the aisles of Tesco in varying alarming hues, from an icy blue white that would better suit a cadaver, through various shades of Oompa Loompa orange, and somehow, given the sun had only been out for around 45 minutes, that glorious lobster red glow, better known as 'The Briton Abroad'. 

When you factored in the array of really bad tattoos; the strange notion some people have that the sun coming out means they can fit into clothes three sizes smaller than normal, and some ladies' habit of casting aside their sturdy undergarments and going au naturel, 'White Dee' style and it was too much to bear. 

I abandoned the trolley, and fled to Majestic Wine, where there is a nice boy who knows my name is Cassandra, has never asked me personal questions about my lavatory habits or made inappropriate advances (I wouldn't mind actually) AND he carries my booze to the car for me.

I came home with  two bottles of gin, a litre of Pimms and a case of wine, but no loo paper.  They will just have to shit in the woods or something.