Price tag

Chitty (may he rot forever in Hell) tagged me on the subject of quirks. I have numerous idiosyncrasies, but since many of them aren’t particularly entertaining, I thought I would focus on one of them which may be vaguely interesting:

I detest being accosted by an assistant when I go into a shop. Whenever I hear the words “Can I help you?” (or whichever variation is currently dictated by store policy), the bottom drops out of my tolerance reserve. It is all I can do to bite back responses like “No, you’re too f*cking ugly!” or “Okay. Take off all your clothes and give me your wallet”.

If I needed help I’d ask, dammit! Isn’t that why they give you a little counter to stand behind and a shiny badge that says ‘HELLO MY NAME IS …’? Doesn’t my stern demeanour and determined walk clue you in to the fact that I probably don’t need (and definitely don’t want) your help? Why don’t you ask the lost soul drifting from shelf to shelf with a vacuous expression plastered across his stupid face whether HE wants help? Oh, hang on – that’s the manager.

This is why it usually takes me a lot longer to shop than is strictly necessary. If I see a group of store assistants circling hungrily just inside the door of a shop, I will usually walk on past rather than run the gauntlet. When I finally gather the strength to go in, my mind is so occupied with the business of censoring the things I really, really want to say, that I have to keep reminding myself what the hell it was that I went in to buy in the first place.