I’m not ashamed to say I shop at Waitrose occasionally. Their shoppers, for one, are far superior. I am ashamed to be judging everyone else in the Waitrose for shopping there. I am a grounded, down-to-earth individual, and can provide proof that I’m shopping there ironically if required. But everyone else, making it look like it’s their regular place to stock up on overpriced sourdough from the Gail’s shelf in the bakery section of Waitrose is enough to make one’s toes stick out a little too much and catch them as the they push the trolley (because obviously they have a trolley because it’s the big shop) and their imbalance causes them to try to catch their weight in the wayward food transport and they end up in the wrong aisle; Aisle 9: Confectionary without any Cadbury’s products.
I stand there, staring at the ‘Essential’ range of ‘Chicken Steaks,’ sardines, mackerel, houmous, dark chocolate digestive biscuits; thinking, “none of these are essential.” And then my peripheral vision is invaded by a man in a gilet that communicates that his driver is waiting for him.
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This is not his usual activity and he looks slightly lost, but is clutching a small piece of paper and is on a mission. He looks like he’s been given a task from his children to buy a jar of sauerkraut (found in the international goods aisle) for as little time and money as possible. That piece of paper is being held quite awkwardly; presumably he’s never held a five-pound note before: the denomination is too low and it feels weird.
I had to follow him, because what else do you do in these moments. Something was bound to happen. Otherwise this would just finish here, wouldn’t it?
He’s at the till now talking to the cashier and I hear him catastrophise the interaction straightaway.
“I believe I have a DYE-count,” he says as he pushes the QR code into the personal space of an apron-wearing staff member.
“Excuse me?”
“DYE-count. Rhymes with ‘Viscount’. 20p off.”
He’s never done this before and, supposedly, doesn’t engage with the lowly language of us peasants.
The cashier was caught in a world between the push chairs and spaniels being walked around the shop and the world this man had appeared from; unable to process that a man with ironed shorts and no socks would be attempting this without supervision. She scanned both items and met his excitement and flourish with a dead pan response: “£2.40”
“Erm… are you sure?” You could see the algebra spilling out his flat cap.
“You wanted a bag as well.” The bag, naturally, is a Waitrose priced Waitrose bag; not cheap and never discounted.
“Ah, of course. What a silly mistake.” He handed over the cash from his other hand with a look of relief.
She placed the change in his hand and he stared at it for a moment.
I was afraid that what happened next would include a scene where the manager was berated by a viscount for a discount that caused a miscount.
I never heard ‘MYE-count’ but could see the eyes thinking something in that region as his laceless shoes clopped towards the automatic exit doors.
The cashier caught my eye and nodded. “Yes. I did MYE-count.” She put 50p into the charity bucket.
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