"Is there only one fucking till on?" the customer demanded, squirming with impatience. He was a short, balding, mustached freak. I sauntered over to the tannoy and called out for checkout staff.
"It's meant to be a fucking supermarket and it's more like a fucking Paki shop. It's no your fault like..."
"We can't get the staff," I explained.
He laughed. "Aye, well, gie me a job."
"You can't use offensive language if you work here. You need to be infinitely patient and polite with difficult customers. Which is challenging at times of course..."
The customer behind him, a cool, blonde 40ish year old eyed me with ravenous desire.
Of course, the last part of dialogue in this scenario did not really occur. Instead I remained silent and meek as I am all too fucking wont to do. The miserable, luckless proles that wander around Broxburn tend to repel and intimidate me. Elitist coward that I am.
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