Check Out

 I get very exasperated at supermarket check outs

I always have.

Women tend to wind me up the most, as it is common for them not to have their payment cards ready when the cashier states the cost of a shop. 

We then have to suffer the whole rigmarole of the where’s my handbag ? face.

The unzipping of the bag, the fishing for the purse and the shuffling for the cards go next and before we can proceed the whole procedure has to bet into reverse before they can start loading bags into trolleys.

I try to look away before any of the dithering starts 

But it’s like a car crash, 

You can’t look away.

Yesterday, I was stood behind an older couple ( 65 perhaps) where she verbalised to her henpecked hubby where every item was to be placed and in which bag. To be honest I only noticed when I caught the cashier’s gaze, who was desperately trying not to smile and conspiratorially we watched the drama unfold until the husband finally offered the wrong bag up for filling and his wife slapped the bag away with her hand

In a fit of pique, the husband waved his arms above his head and stormed off snapping “You cow” leaving the wife to do the where’s my handbag? thing as well as proclaiming I don’t know what’s that all about.

I didn’t look at the cashier until the woman was walking away and we then both burst into giggles 

“ I’m very tired “ the cashier said in way of explanation. “ But that poor man”

We giggled some more.

I tell you this small tale on the back of a now deleted post by Rachel Philips who shared a funny and well written post about how singletons can inflate health worries to Diva- esque levels when they are alone in the house without the constraints and common sense sense of a companion. 

The cashier was the only person I had spoken to all day. 

And therefore the joke, the shared humanity of the altercation 

Was even more important and significant.

The scene between us, a wonderfully timed conspiratorial bit of fun.