I am in supermarket checkout queue. With children. (not right now obviously, I am painting you a picture of the other day). I suddenly see the 3 year old appears to be fascinated by the checkout lady. Quite a lot of the Sainsburys teenage staff sport that scouse brow thing – and the caterpillar on face look can normally be quite diverting for the toddlers but n0 this one is middle aged and fairly normal. The only po..ssib..le thing is that she has a very short haircut and dark colouring which has led to the vaguest suggestion of a moustache.
I look between the two – his confused expression and her quite scary customer service handling skills and try to head it off at the pass. ‘Say hello to the lady’. He just looks at me perplexed. I continue to talk at all and sundry throughout transaction to leave no conversational gaps, I am manic and sweating. I have payed, we are saying goodbye hurrah! we have succeeded. ‘Really a ‘lady’ mummy, *one more glance**a loaded pause* not a man?’ comes piping loudly out of the ball of truth on legs that is a standard toddler.
Fuck, shit, bollocks.
I spent most of my teenage years being mistaken for a boy (a badly judged haircut, serious braces and a small weight problem that left any growing buds much more like moobs that boobs) and know know how shit it is. But with sheer genius the checkout lady stood up in front of entire queue and shouted ”Man’ darling? These are double bloody Gs love – you can’t buy these!’
I think I love her.