What is it about little old ladies and cashiers? I stand in the queue at the market. There is a little old lady in front of me, shuffling towards the cashier, clutching her purchase. With a trembling hand, she passes the tin of prunes or whatever over the counter.
"That'll be 39p, please" responds the cashier in a bored voice.
39p? 39p! The oldie is thunderstruck. She actually has to *pay*? Cue long minutes of fumbling around in her sundry coats for her purse until the shop closes or hell freezes over. Whichever is soonest.
I'm definitely getting more intolerant with age. And with the aged. Must be to do with me getting older; I found myself referring to the landlord's lawyer as "that young chap" the other day.
Tune in later tonight for an update on The New Adventures With The Ex... heh...
