Well it’s your own fault. How was I supposed to know that your value-range baby rusks didn’t belong to the pensioner in front of you if you don’t put the divider down? And don’t pretend you were too busy flicking through that magazine to notice, we all know you aren’t going to buy it. Good Housekeeping, as if. It’s plain to see you’re more of a Take A Break kind of woman.
Bulk-buying on the chocolate digestives again are we? No wonder those kids look like they’re rotting from the inside out, amount of sugar you must stick down their scrawny throats. While we’re on the subject, please extract that small one from the bagging area. I can see his sticky little hands reaching for my carefully arranged pile of carriers and I would so hate for him to accidently suffocate in one. My shift ends in ten and I’m not waiting around to try to resuscitate the blighter.
I can see you hiding the laxatives behind that jumbo pack of Potato Smilies too you know. You don’t fool me. Trying a piece of fruit for once in your life might help. Honestly, ask anyone, I’m not judgmental at all; but Jamie Oliver really was wasting his bloody time with you wasn’t he? There’s more nutrition in the ring pulls of your Stella cans than there is in these six boxes of budget fish fingers.
While you struggle to fit that last box of sugar-encrusted corn flakes into your bag, I’ll just sit here and take a guess at how many coupons are waiting for me in your badly-made knock-off Vuitton wallet.
“Do you have a Clubcard, Madam? Oh what a lovely purse…”
