The Spar has been declared a neutral, free-of-politics, zone. The leaflets have been put through the back (and anything that gets put through the back never sees the fluorescent lighting of the Spar again) and the customers have been told to keep their views at home. The place, that I have reluctantly worshipped for the past six years, is no longer a space of free speech and independent views: the staff have been restricted to talk of the weather and football. This is indeed, a time of change.
In other news, the new owners have expanded their alcohol stock to include that of Dickens Cider and it seems that whenever anyone buys it, they must be brought to the office to watch it’s advert in which a man states, “that all women need is a good Dickens Cider”. Get it? Funny-ha-ha-not-so-much. You can imagine my delight when a customer turned around and said, “Ugh, I’m not watching that – it’ll bloody put me off the cider. I mean, [dicks] don’t exactly look nice or taste good do they?” To which I replied, bright red, “jhsdjhfjhbshjgdfhjjbcbhjsd…yeah”.
I am writing this post in haste, since my boss has just texted, asking if I can come in earlier…and I’m a little worried. I got a rather outrageous haircut yesterday. I mean, in Glasgow I would blend in quite well, but I’m thinking it might be a bit much for the Spar in my tiny home village. I got it cut quite short before and I think that when customers came into the shop, they thought that there was something different about me, but they couldn’t quite put their finger on what it was and so just kept telling me that I had “filled out in my face”. That’s always a lovely thing to hear, isn’t it? That your face has got fat? I really don’t know how this haircut is going to go down and I thought I had all day to make it look semi-normal and get used to it a bit, but now I’ve got to run…
Wish me luck.