.... this evening the man behind the counter at the local tube station kiosk reached out emotionally to me across the sea of confectionery that lay between us and said "glad I'm not the only one working Saturdays". A simple phrase you might think, but I'd just returned from indulging myself in a £50 lunch, a lengthy analysis of the lipstick counter in John Lewis and a vanilla slice for the journey home. I most definitely hadn't been to work. Considering that all he'd ever said to me on previous visits was "79 pence please", I felt I couldn't throw it back in his face by telling him I hadn't been to work. That led me to wonder what it was about me that might indicate I had been working all day and was gagging for some Snack-a-Jacks.
Did my legs appear tired after pedalling an unlicensed rickshaw through Covent Garden? Did I look directioned-out after standing on the corner of Regent Street and Conduit Street wearing a fluorescent suit saying Hair Removal this way? Did I smell of polished leather after extolling the virtues of shoe cleaner to customers in Clarks who 'have a lot of that at home already, thank you'? Did I look windswept after seven hours on the dual carriageway with a bucket load of cast-off daffodils from a Tesco service station? Did I look disillusioned from the reckless refusals by customers at Comet to buy extended insurance for their electric toothbrushes?
I feared being a huge disappointment to this man who spent his days keeping the peace between the Haribos and the Cadburys and channelling his OCD into stacking Rollos. He'd reached beyond "79 pence" to speak to me as a kindred spirit. Had he been monitoring my consumption of salty snacks to discover that I had transformed into a human condiment?
I came to the conclusion that things were best left unexplained between us. It was for the best. We shared a moment of savoury snacks, "Brief Encounter" style. And, as in the film, I left without looking back.
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