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Monday, 7 March 2011


Micky Quinn was apparently the inspiration for the above song. He was a footballer and a bit on the large side I suppose. I wish I had a picture of him eating a pie that was thrown at him during a match. Anyway, pies, what have they to do with my little excursion down to Zaragoza to see the bright lights and big city? It seems that there is a new policy in shops like Corte Ingles. Whereas a few months ago, weeks even, you could have a varda around said emporium with out any hassle from the bods that work there as they are too busy having a fag or a chat amongst themselves ( just as I like it, leave me alone) they have appeared to have introduced a selling policy. I would have loved to have attended the workshop or seminar where this new fangled thing was introduced. As I tried on a coat in peace a woman materialised and told me she was Marisol and at any moment I could be helped by her in any way I liked. She then stood there staring at me as I looked at myself in what I think might be the only mirror in the store. She said the coat was really 'cute', not a word I like to associate with myself at this age. You can't do winsome after thirty, unless you're the Queen Mother or your valet is gay. Then she started picking at the fluff that had gathered all over the coat and seemed to be on all the coats like a sort of mistletoe invasion. This put me on edge and I took the coat off and told Marisol that I would be looking at an awful lot of coats that day and she then ran off. About a few minutes later another shop assistant spotted me in the changing room trying on another coat and wafted towards me with a worried look, that look that I must have worn when I had the misfortune to have a Saturday job in Russell and Bromley in Brent Cross Shopping Centre and the fuhrers there jackbooted their way up and down making sure you implemented the dreaded 'SEVEN SELLING POINTS'. I told her there would be an awful lot of coats coming my way and better to back off now while the going was good and she responded in a delightful way and said 'you're not from here are you?' 'No.' I said. 'I am from Huesca'. Which I believe I am although not originally of course as that would imply an awful lot of psychological problems too numerous to mention. 'Huesca?' she argued. 'Well, originally London, but, yes, I live in Huesca now'. She then went on to say how she loved London and it was one of her favourite cities and I did something I have never done in my life. I didn't want to know. I realised that people here don't really want to know anyone or anything outside their family and close friends and I have become used to this and developed my own defence system and here was this girl being very sociable and friendly etc, and I had turned into this monster from the provinces. If she had accosted me nine years ago it would have been a different story but this small town and all its insecurities has rubbed off and I was appalled at myself.
Anyway, a short while later someone called Vanessa popped up behind me and suggested I bought the litre version of what I was holding as it was more economical. 'But I don't know if I will buy this one' I said. How to get it wrong once more. I'm thinking of becoming some sort of so-called 'sales guru' just to give them a helping hand.

1 comment:

Mike the Traditionalist said...

That explains the personal service I got two weeks ago when I bought some sheets at El Corte Inglés. I thought the lady who attended me was trying to be helpful because of my age and of course an elderly man buying sheets. Usually you have a lot of trouble trying to get their attention.