So then I went to another charity shop and was idly browsing
the merchandise laid out on narrow tables, when another middle aged woman – one
of the assistants, no less – sidled past me and, in so doing, brushed her
bottom against my hand. Well, what does a gentleman do when a woman brushes her
bottom against his hand? He remains silent, of course. But then she complicated
matters by saying ‘Sorry, darlin’. I do apologise.’ Being a gentleman, I felt
the need to respond. ‘Don’t mention it,’ I offered, and was immediately struck by
the absurdity of such a response because she already had. Nevertheless, she
walked away with a self-satisfied smile and went about her business. Things
like that don’t happen in Ashbourne, either.
You might think that the link here is charity shops, but no:
the next stop was the coffee shop where the toast-and-Americano lady was
sitting with her toast and Americano while her nondescript husband munched his
own toast absentmindedly. I sat at the next table, and was a little disturbed
when the lady suddenly broke into a fit of wailing and sobbing (and squeaked
quite a lot, too) while her husband regarded her absentmindedly (he’d finished
his toast by then.) Eventually the dear old lady ceased her sobbing and all was
well, and then they left. I omitted to notice whether any self-satisfied smiles
were in evidence on either visage, but I doubt it.
This is Uttoxeter, you
understand. Uttoxeter is very different from Ashbourne where the keyword is
reserve in all things.
Next stop was the B&Q store on the retail park where I
selected the best specialist gardening knife they had on offer (because I’m
tired of struggling with the little old pen knife which used to be my brother’s
and is both as old and as blunt as me) and made for the checkout. I did what I
always do: chose the checkout operated by the youngest and prettiest of the
female operators. (It’s what all men do, isn’t it? Isn’t it?) When it came to
my turn to pay, the young and pretty operator deserted her post and was
replaced by a grizzled and grumpy-looking middle aged woman. Isn’t it always
the way?
‘Did she see me coming?’ I asked the grizzled and
grumpy-looking one.
‘No, she was dealing with another customer. Since you’re
buying a knife, however, I have to be sure you’re over eighteen. Are you?’
For heaven’s sake,
Jeffrey, life is challenging you to find a witty response. I need notice of
such a challenge. My mind doesn’t work as quickly as it used to. Erm…
‘Well, my mother died twenty four years ago, so I suppose I
must be.’
That wasn’t so bad,
Jeffrey. Well done.
The G&G one was suitably amused, and so I forgave her
for being there. She even called me darlin’, so there you are. And it was
Uttoxeter after all.
Last stop Tesco, where another middle aged woman gave valuable
assistance (despite omitting to call me either luv or darlin’) when the
self-service till I’d selected chose to have a strop. They do, you know. Uttoxeter
Tesco’s self-service tills are legendary for their moodiness. Every week there
are several which stand glaring at you with one hand thrust firmly onto the hip
while a big notice on the screen reads ‘Don’t you dare come near me with your
stupid shopping or I’ll scratch your eyes out.’ You think I’m joking? Come to
Uttoxeter and try them some time. Ashbourne Sainbury’s self-service tills, on
the other hand, are much different – more sedate, more self-effacing, and
infinitely more reliable. Reserve in all things, you see.
But it’s Uttoxeter which has the characters while dear old
Ashbourne does prosperous and smug exceedingly well. And this is the sort of
stuff which really should be in the guide books, but never is.
* * *
I just listened to a song on YouTube called Calls Me Home by some woman called Shannon
LaBrie. It was really nice. I wonder whether she’s young and attractive and
fancies a job in B&Q.
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