Lilac

Saturday. Midday. The menswear department of a well-known international chain in a very popular English town. I'm here because I've seen a scarf in the window and I'd like to have a closer look at it. I wander briefly and I find a few scarves, but not the one I'm after. Then I see it, right up on a top shelf, wound around the neck of a 'head and shoulders' mannequin. My eyes scan the shop and I find the Sales Assistant, sorting through some cardigans. I walk across to her and as soon as I see her face, I realise I'm in for some fun.

Everything about her screams: 'Just because I've got a badge and a uniform, doesn't mean you can expect me to do any work.' Her face is wearing the permanently bored expression that always makes me question my stance on corporal punishment: lips half-parted; mouth half-sneering; eyes half-droopy; chin curled with disdain. Her hair is an artful tumbleweed of messiness. I'm reminded of Dolly Parton's line about how much money it costs to look really cheap.

"Excuse me," I say, and we get the first huff. She rolls her eyes and looks at me. Clearly, she's been folding the cardigans according to some complex mathematical equation and I've broken her train of thought. She's got every right to be annoyed. "You see that scarf over there?" I point at the mannequin. "Could you please tell me where it is in the shop? I've found the other scarves, but I haven't seen that one."

The sneer grows and the curl of the chin deepens. She takes a deep breath, sets her voice to 'Patronise' and says, "We don't get many accessories."

At this point, several thoughts go through my head. I notice how she pronounces the statement as a question, which further weakens the aforementioned views on physical violence. I wonder whether I should just turn around and walk straight out. I tell myself that perhaps I don't need to keep my neck warm after all. But the one overriding thought is that I'd love to know how we've just made the leap from "Could you please tell me where that scarf is?" to "We don't get many accessories."

But of course, this incident is taking place in Polite Society, so all I say is "Sorry?" and then she blinks, raises her eyebrows and repeats, "We don't get many accessories," but this time with two question marks at the end.

"I just need to know where you keep your other scarves, so I can have a look at that one, please, and see how much it is."

And now she huffs and puffs as though she's auditioning for Three Little Pigs and she stomps over to the other side of the shop. She yanks open a drawer and I see it's stuffed full of different scarves, except for the one I'm after. She shuts the drawer and attacks another one, all the while breathing in and out with so much venom, I'm starting to wonder if the Met Office is going to raise an alert about unusual wind formations in a small patch of southern England. No luck with the second drawer either. "It's not here. 'Cause we don't get many accessories. Like I said." She points at the mannequin.

"Riiiight."

"We just put them out around the shop. As soon as we get any."

"I see." I don't really want to argue with this charming young lady, but the presence of several scarves inside the drawers she's accosted would seem to taint the truth of what she's just told me, and I also don't want to get side-tracked, so I just say, "What about this scarf, then?"

Finger points at mannequin. "It's there."

And - dim-witted dolt that I am - I only now realise what she's been driving at. "Oh, so you're saying it's all right for me to take that very one?"

"Yes," she smiles, and turns back to her cardigan calculus.

At this point, I should mention that I'm carrying a couple of other bags, so when I reach up to the top shelf to try to drag down this Holy Grail of neckwear, I nearly bring the whole display crashing down on my head. "Actually," I say, interrupting a devilish sleeve tuck, "could you get it down, please, because I'm worried I might wreck the mannequin."

Remember the way Superman puts out fires by breathing on them? Well, he could have learned a thing or two from this paragon of customer service. She inhales, and I imagine her lungs expanding like two puffer fish. She gives me a glare. And then she proceeds to rewrite the Beaufort Scale.

Still, to giver her her due, she does march back towards me and she does whip the scarf down and she does, sort of, hand it to me. Naturally, I don't expect her to say anything along the lines of, "Here you are," because I know she's already on to her next equation. Tricky things, cardigans.

I examine the scarf and I'm almost hoping that I'm not going to like it, or that it's going to be too expensive, so that I can tell her that I'm not interested. Luckily for her sums, I decide to buy it.

I suppose I could tell her that her attitude leaves a lot to be desired. I could complain to the Manager. I could even have a rant about the way in which customers are generally treated in this country. But of course, I don't do any of these things. I spend a few more minutes wandering around the shop, and then, like an obedient little spender, I clutch my purchase-to-be and head over to the till.

That's when I see the queue: at least fifteen people, holding various items of clothing, lips pursed, shoulders tense. And there, behind the counter, scanning barcodes at a rate of 'Christmas isn't till April' is the lady herself, Little Miss Gormless, huffing away.

Do I join the queue? Of course I do.

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