A Trip to the Shop

I went to the supermarket earlier and am convinced that I became momentarily possessed by an evil spirit while I was at the checkout.

Why?

Because I made small talk with the cashier.

“Are you using your own bag?” she asked, observing me standing with a bag that could only have been more clearly mine if it said TIM’S BAG on it. Although she didn’t know my name, so this might not have helped.

“Yes,” I replied, involuntarily. What I really wanted to do was ask: “Why are you working at the till when you have such superior detective skills?”

“Do you need any help with your packing?” was the next question.

Before I could sarcastically say: “Yes, because both of my fucking arms have just fallen off”, I found myself politely answering “no thanks”.

An item proved tricky to scan and the cashier told me this. I laughed sympathetically instead of saying: “Get a bloody move on, some of this stuff goes out of date tomorrow.”

“That’ll be £20.19, please,” I was told.

“I think I’ve got the exact money,” I heard my devil-voice say. “Oh, isn’t that typical? I’ve only got 18 in change.”

“Oh, that’s Sod’s Law,” came the reply.

“Isn’t it just?” I really couldn’t help myself.

I was given the receipt. “You’ve got 1p off your fuel this month,” she informed me.

“Whoop-de-fucking-doo. It’s the very least you lot can do, you account-falsifying shysters,” I didn’t scream in her face.

“Have a nice evening,” she added.

“You too,” I found myself replying.

Once I left the shop I returned to normal and punched a pensioner in the face.