My hands aren't sculpted for holding things. My long spidery fingers, contrary to belief, aren't very good at gripping. Things drop; they split, they break, falling from the great height of the middle of a 5ft 7" eighteen year old girl.
I dropped a pot of soured cream and chive crisp dip in the supermarket the other day. I wasn't surprised and even less so to find that the lid had popped off and a dog-poo dollop of the sauce had made its way from the pot onto the floor.
I should have known it, but why? Just why?
This wasn't ASDA, either. This wasn't Tesco. This wasn't Sainsbury's. It was Waitrose. And, of course, I was the only person in the store who seemed to have spilt anything. My nana rushed off to find a cleaner who promptly told her that he'd be over to clean it up in a minute.
I stood awkwardly over the mess, angling my feet into a weird two sided triangle.
Where was that cleaner?
The food belt was running forward. My 700 gram box of Rice Krispies was trundling down to the cashier. I couldn't stand here like a penguin until he came. There were people waiting.
Next customer please, was flashing behind me. Choices, choices.
I glanced at the man behind. He was wrapped in the allure of his sausage roll, flaky pastry sitting all around his stubbly chin.
He probably saw it. But what if he steps in it? Should I tell him? How would I break it to him?
It was trivial. How would I break it to him?! (I genuinely thought this.) I wasn't telling him his dog had just died. I was making sure he didn't skid down the aisle on the creamy dip! And...I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him. I just walked forward.
I smiled at the cashier.
Oh no. I haven't just done that.
My nana came back.
"He said he's on his way."
Right'o. I needn't tell the man then.
But he was oblivious. It seems the savoury pastry had balled over all his senses. He was unpacking. I could see it. Soured cream and chive; right by his foot.
"Excuse me-" but it was too late. He'd smeared the sauce with his shoe and now had green herbs clinging to his trouser leg. "Oh no!" My nana continued. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Oh, you've got it on your trousers! I just called the man to clean it up!"
"That's alright," replied this rather handsome looking man. Rugged and blonde, tall and well-spoken. "It seems I've done the job." He was adamant not to look my way. I couldn't even have the cashiers attention in diverting my attention. She was handing him tissues and watching him scrape it off the bottom of his shoe.
He knew. And he knew I knew. But I didn't tell him.
I felt a fool for it. But I can't work out why. Was I really to shy to say anything? Or did I want to tempt Fate, just to see of he'd walk in it? This happens a lot and, likewise, I just have no idea!
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