I resolved today, thunderstorms or no thunderstorms, to hand some of Alison’s stuff into one of the town’s charity shops. Stuff that I had stowed away in a cupboard two years ago. When I walked into the shop, the lady behind the counter looked up from what she was doing.
“I have some stuff–” I began.
“Have ye gote Gift Aid?” she shouted.
“Aye, I–”
“D’ye ken yer postcode?” she shouted again.
“Aye, it’s–”
“Jist fill this in,” she ordered, handing me a label.
I hesitated.
“D’ye want me tae fill it in fur ye?”
Jesus, I thought, I know I’m a pensioner, but do I look fucking senile?
“No, no, no,” I said and proceeded to print my name and postcode on the label.
After I handed the label back to her, I lifted up the two bags I had come in with. “And the stuff?” I asked.
“Och, ye’ve gote two bags,” she tutted and began filling in a second label. “Jist pit the bags ower there by the radiator,” she continued without lifting her head.
By the time I did that, she was serving the family who had been waiting behind me at the counter.
Before I went into the shop, I had rehearsed what I was going to say. “I have some stuff here that belonged to my late wife. There’s a large mirrored jewellery box in the big bag. And in the little one there are some smaller jewellery boxes, together with some pieces of jewellery that people might like.” But the lady was loud (it’s a Crieff thing) and busy and had no time to chat. She was just doing her job, I suppose. And I’m glad about that, because otherwise I’m sure I would have choked up. Sometimes a lack of empathy can help.
“I have some stuff–” I began.
“Have ye gote Gift Aid?” she shouted.
“Aye, I–”
“D’ye ken yer postcode?” she shouted again.
“Aye, it’s–”
“Jist fill this in,” she ordered, handing me a label.
I hesitated.
“D’ye want me tae fill it in fur ye?”
Jesus, I thought, I know I’m a pensioner, but do I look fucking senile?
“No, no, no,” I said and proceeded to print my name and postcode on the label.
After I handed the label back to her, I lifted up the two bags I had come in with. “And the stuff?” I asked.
“Och, ye’ve gote two bags,” she tutted and began filling in a second label. “Jist pit the bags ower there by the radiator,” she continued without lifting her head.
By the time I did that, she was serving the family who had been waiting behind me at the counter.
Before I went into the shop, I had rehearsed what I was going to say. “I have some stuff here that belonged to my late wife. There’s a large mirrored jewellery box in the big bag. And in the little one there are some smaller jewellery boxes, together with some pieces of jewellery that people might like.” But the lady was loud (it’s a Crieff thing) and busy and had no time to chat. She was just doing her job, I suppose. And I’m glad about that, because otherwise I’m sure I would have choked up. Sometimes a lack of empathy can help.