For the first time in a very long time, I actually made a day of it when doing a mystery shop. The other day I visited Skipton, just desperate to get out of the house, to earn very little money. I was expecting the usual ‘train journey – shop – train home’ routine, but with a glorious stoke of luck, it turned out to be quite a good day.
Due to my internet being cut off at home, I was forced in the morning to head to the university library to enquire about potential shops to do that day. Since the end of exams, I had promised myself never to set foot in the libraries at Leeds for 18 months, so I felt rather dishonoured breaking my Lent so early on.
Success! I bagged a visit to Skipton, and off I went. Nothing much really happened on the way there, as I was buried in a volume of light reading. However, three things did amuse me once in the supermarket during my shop. The first one concluded an idea I’ve had for a while: that people are happy to make acquaintances, but only when it suits them. As I walked down the frozen food aisle, two old women passed each other, going in opposite directions. A hasty “Hi” protruded from both mouths, and one of the women stopped in order to transform this greeting into a proper conversation. In return, the other woman just walked on by, head held high. Chatting in a supermarket to this particular lady just didn’t suit her mood. The poor other woman was left to recollect her rejection, and move on into the tinned goods aisle.
The second and third interesting things happened when I was queuing to pay for my food. In front of me were an elderly couple. I looked at what they had on the conveyor belt: six packs of jelly and two litres of UHT milk. They were up for a right night. I was about to ponder further into what this lethal combination of consumables could amount to, when I heard a shriek that echoed throughout the store: “Come on Graham!” I don’t know why, but it amused me…
What made this visit particularly special was the coincidence that three friends (that again cannot be named for complicated legal reasons) also happened to be in Skipton that day. After half an hour trying to find them, I met them outside the local Oxfam in the town centre. I noticed on the window of the Oxfam a sign: ‘All clothes – half price sale’. Now, at what point does anyone think ‘well, I would shop at Oxfam, but it’s a little bit too pricey for my liking’? The price of the goods surely isn’t the reason why they’re not selling. In my opinion, they should get some better quality stock in…
The four of us, after finally meeting up, went for lunch by the canal. While sitting there mauling a four-pack of chocolate muffins, a beautiful event in nature was occurring. I am talking, of course, about… duck foreplay. A lady duck was perched on the edge of the canal. A man duck had noticed this, and thought he had a chance. The little pecker jumped out of the water, and began grooming himself near the female. When her head was turned, he actually slowly waddled sideways in her direction, to get near to her without her noticing. I was so sweet to see this guy trying his hardest to look cool but not too pushy. As we left, they swam away together on the canal. I suppose it does pay to be the nice guy.
Nothing much really happened after this. We went for a gander round the town and saw in a shop a bucket branded ‘The Invincible Bucket’. There was a picture on the front with a massive car on top of four buckets, as though this is meant to prove to you that this bucket is the manliest, most indestructible bucket in the world. So what do you put in a bucket? Paint, soil, and maybe water to wash the car. They should have called it ‘The Most Unnecessarily Branded Bucket Ever’.
Tuesday 8 June 2010
Friday 4 June 2010
Grapes of Annoyance
Two days ago I was talking to a friend about finally doing another mystery shop. Stood at traffic lights, he jokingly suggested going to Tesco for lunch. “Nah” I said, “I’ll get my hit later today. Although I’m almost clean now”. As I said this we walked past two girls waiting at the crossing. I’m pretty sure they would have understood I was referring to mystery shopping…
Having left my friend (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons beyond my control) I sauntered down to the train station, sweltering in the glorious Leeds sunshine. My first point of call was Ilkley. I think I’ve been to Ilkley more times this year than… well than a really regular occurrence. Indeed, this visit was no different to the 15 or so I have done over the last two years to the town, and the ride back home was to be the same demure affair. However, the glories of personal stupidity struck as per usual.
A man sat next to me on the train as I was tucking into a bag of grapes. At this point I must say, they were bloody good grapes. The man – about middle-aged – had clearly had a long day at work, and was grumbling through the sports section of the Metro. He saw me eating the grapes, so I offered him one. He accepted, probably in surprise more than anything else; that a youth in this age were to offer him fruit and not a pill of some kind. I turned back to my book, and carried on reading and chopping, as a girl with creamy coloured tights sat opposite me. Now I must mention here that the colour of her tights, and the fact I noticed them at all, are important to the story, and NOT just a purvey appreciation of a 25-year-old’s undergarments.
About two minutes after the girl sat down, I grappled with an enormous red grape to pluck it from its stalk. This grape was the king of the packet. Much like the biggest crisp its respective bag, the grape was just bulging with mass. Rather nonchalantly I popped it between my two front teeth, and bit slowly but surely into it. The result: half a grape fell in my mouth, as the juice from the other half cascaded over my lap and discreetly onto the thigh of the lady in front, who was reading a stimulating celeb mag by this point. She didn’t notice, but I bloody well did: as did the man next to me, who was shaking slightly as he tried to suppress his laughter.
I quickly put my grapes back in my bag before the woman could see, and buried my head in my book, seriously hoping she shopped at Primark and not somewhere expensive, like George.
After alighting (whatever the hell that REALLY means) the train, I meandered through the busy crowd to a platform for the train to Bradford. Standing there waiting, I couldn’t help observe a rather short woman, nursing the potbelly of a balding, taller man. It looked like he was pregnant, and she was feeling for kicks. To be honest, it just looked weird.
On the train to Bradford I definitely saw an Asian Colin Murray, as well as a very skinny Chico (and I hereby express my embarrassment at having even heard of that name). I was pretty damn pleased with my celeb spotting for the day.
However, my annoyance grew on the way back from Bradford, when a guy came up to me and asked if I had “a fag”. Naturally I did the “sorry mate” routine, which basically just means: “please fuck off”, and went to cross the road. However, something hit me when I did this: why should I be sorry that I don’t possess something that basically makes you look and smell like the trampy state you’re in? Why should I concede to looking like the one at fault? It just pissed me off to realise the automatic reaction when being asked if you have a cigarette is to apologise for NOT screwing up your body.
Anyway, he then went over to two 12-year old girls and asked them. They of course said no. The guy was clearly an idiot.
Having left my friend (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons beyond my control) I sauntered down to the train station, sweltering in the glorious Leeds sunshine. My first point of call was Ilkley. I think I’ve been to Ilkley more times this year than… well than a really regular occurrence. Indeed, this visit was no different to the 15 or so I have done over the last two years to the town, and the ride back home was to be the same demure affair. However, the glories of personal stupidity struck as per usual.
A man sat next to me on the train as I was tucking into a bag of grapes. At this point I must say, they were bloody good grapes. The man – about middle-aged – had clearly had a long day at work, and was grumbling through the sports section of the Metro. He saw me eating the grapes, so I offered him one. He accepted, probably in surprise more than anything else; that a youth in this age were to offer him fruit and not a pill of some kind. I turned back to my book, and carried on reading and chopping, as a girl with creamy coloured tights sat opposite me. Now I must mention here that the colour of her tights, and the fact I noticed them at all, are important to the story, and NOT just a purvey appreciation of a 25-year-old’s undergarments.
About two minutes after the girl sat down, I grappled with an enormous red grape to pluck it from its stalk. This grape was the king of the packet. Much like the biggest crisp its respective bag, the grape was just bulging with mass. Rather nonchalantly I popped it between my two front teeth, and bit slowly but surely into it. The result: half a grape fell in my mouth, as the juice from the other half cascaded over my lap and discreetly onto the thigh of the lady in front, who was reading a stimulating celeb mag by this point. She didn’t notice, but I bloody well did: as did the man next to me, who was shaking slightly as he tried to suppress his laughter.
I quickly put my grapes back in my bag before the woman could see, and buried my head in my book, seriously hoping she shopped at Primark and not somewhere expensive, like George.
After alighting (whatever the hell that REALLY means) the train, I meandered through the busy crowd to a platform for the train to Bradford. Standing there waiting, I couldn’t help observe a rather short woman, nursing the potbelly of a balding, taller man. It looked like he was pregnant, and she was feeling for kicks. To be honest, it just looked weird.
On the train to Bradford I definitely saw an Asian Colin Murray, as well as a very skinny Chico (and I hereby express my embarrassment at having even heard of that name). I was pretty damn pleased with my celeb spotting for the day.
However, my annoyance grew on the way back from Bradford, when a guy came up to me and asked if I had “a fag”. Naturally I did the “sorry mate” routine, which basically just means: “please fuck off”, and went to cross the road. However, something hit me when I did this: why should I be sorry that I don’t possess something that basically makes you look and smell like the trampy state you’re in? Why should I concede to looking like the one at fault? It just pissed me off to realise the automatic reaction when being asked if you have a cigarette is to apologise for NOT screwing up your body.
Anyway, he then went over to two 12-year old girls and asked them. They of course said no. The guy was clearly an idiot.
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