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.