It Pays To Wash Your Hair

I have been working at home again today, which means I have been in my tracky bums and some scruff top. I have greasy and dishevelled hair. I forgot about these things.

Tonight, I made a pie for dinner, which required cider. So at around 7pm, after a hard day's work, I wandered down to Sainsbury's to get some. Cider was the only ingredient I needed.

I realised only once I had left the house that I was still in my tracky bums, scruffy top and sporting greasy, dishevelled hair. I realised, because some gent gave me "a look". You know the type of look. Horror. I ploughed on regardless. I had a shower this morning - it's not as if I was smelly as well.

So I got to Sainsbury's and realised, as I picked up my two litre bottle of Sainsbury's Basics cider, that this was going to look bad. I was clearly going to look like a wino (well, a cidero if we're going to be anal). For a moment, I thought I was going to be saved by the scan-it-yourself counter. Then realised my plan would be foiled - because it bleeps and requires attention from someone who works in the shop - and they're never there. You have to hang around waiting for someone, sometimes you have to wave and shout over to them. Publicity I simply couldn't afford. Everyone would be looking down their noses as my scruffy alcohol-problem character.

So I bit the bullet and went to a checkout. And I was right. The boy at the till didn't even try not to be obviously looking me up and down in disgust when I plonked my two litres on the counter. He even went so far as to sniff at me and turn the other way. Loath to even speak to me, he pointed in the general direction of the price display to let me know I owed one pound and twenty one pence. Then turned to me, spitting with his eyes "If you can afford it, wino (or cidero if he was the anal sort, of course)".

Barely looking at me whilst I put the money in his had, he then counted it out and turned to me with a look of absolute distain, to hand me my receipt, by holding the very corner of it as if he feared he might touch my infected skin and catch something from me.

So altogether it was a pleasant experience. But the pie tasted great. So again - similar to yesterday, all's well that ends well.

(Apart from those damn magpies still singing merrily outside my window).