This weekend Mr Thrifty had to buy a new bike (he uses it everyday to commute to work), eeep, a January expenditure that we didn’t really need but thankfully he had money set aside because, at twelve years old he knew it could go to the bike heaven in the sky at any moment. One good thing about him having to spend a small fortune on a Saturday morning instead of making me pancakes, was that I could bum a lift to the charity shops near to the bike for a bit of a mooch.
I usually enjoy a bit of time alone for a quick thirty minutes of mooching in the six or seven charity shops in this particular area but not this weekend.
What the hell is wrong with people? Is the recession driving the grumpy bitches from the high street, grudgingly, into the charity shops? Or are people just out and out rude at this time of year?
Not once but twice I had women, around the same age as me (28 if you’re wondering, you nosy gits), almost knock me to the floor to get to something. I’m not small and I’m certainly not slim, you can’t miss me.
In the last shop, I saw something I knew I was going to love as I walked past the shop window. It was on a set of bric-a-brac shelves and two women were standing in front having a good old look. I didn’t push in, I didn’t jolt them. I know the pleasure of standing in front of shelf upon shelf of plates, cups and other guff. Taking it all in, eyes darting back and forth, colours jumping out at you. I surveyed the scene from behind them, taking peeks of what I could see from over the tops of their heads. One lady moved away to take her items to the till and I slipped into her place.
A happy few minutes of sifting through plates, rummaging through little plastic baskets of possibilities and then finally, I reached out to pick up the item I had seen from the street. A teapot. A lovely teapot just the right size for the one or two cups of tea that I have taken, rather unusually for me, to having at 3pm. I loved it and knew it was meant for me. I went up on my tippy toes, reached up, hand was on the handle and I was just about to lift it down and before I knew it someone else had their hand on it. I turned with a smile as if to indicate ‘I wanted to buy that’ but the smile was vein because one of the blind, knock-me-over-without-looking women (we’ll rename her The Snatcher shall we? It’s far more catchy) was off with the teapot in the direction of the till.
Again, let me ram this home to you, I am not small and I am not slim. I am not easily missed. Really, I’m not.
The shock washed over me but I was about to speak up and say something when The Snatcher reached the till.
Bless her, bless her, bless her, the woman, the lovely old woman behind the till said
“I think that lady was looking at this when you snatched it from her”The colour red rose from inside The Snatcher’s collar. Her face looked like a tomato dropped at a market and trodden on my every passer by, I hope she felt like it too. Bitch.
Before I could say a word she plonked the teapot down on the desk, turned on her Snatchy-Snatcherson heel and was out of the shop.
I bought the the teapot for a bargain price and I’m off to snatch a teabag to put in it. Don’t worry I’m only snatching it from the teabag jar, not the hands of another.
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