Monthly Archives: July 2012

Here’s the next instalment of Checkout Chick. Click on the link to read what’s happened so far…

 

(26)

Cripes Alive. Always comes a time when you find out something about bloke you fancy that suddenly makes him seem less fanciable. Happened today with Bright Eyes. Knew he was too good to be true, men that good looking have to have something wrong. Was happy to settle with bad fashion sense and perhaps even boring personality when it came to Bright Eyes. Like Kimi Raikkonen. Handsome man, Kimi, but when he starts talking in post-race interviews you just want to shoot yourself to stop hearing his dreary monotone voice.

Shame, really. About Bright Eyes, not Kimi, but shame about him, too. Shame about Bright Eyes because before his revelation there’d been this desire-ridden moment where he’d touched me and had been close enough for me to smell him and everything about him had been utterly delicious.

Slow day; stock return. Mondays always slow days and thus hardly any staff on grocery. Returning can of peas which of course had to be on top shelf. Cannot reach top shelf and couldn’t be arsed going to grab the step. So stood on bottom shelf and half on bottom shelf and half climbed my way up to place peas back when voice very close behind said, ‘here, let me,’ and hand was placed on back, peas taken from grasp and put onto shelf that was having trouble reaching anyhow.

Slowly stepped backward, hand still on back and kind of guiding me downwards. On flat ground spun around to see blue (green?) eyes of Bright Eyes looming down at me. Cripes – so gorgeous. Noticed different things. That lips quite full. That nose is perfectly triangular. That ears jut out just a little bit but what the hell does that matter?

Barely managed, ‘thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ was his reply. Then said, ‘you not on checkout today?’

Hope against hope, think he may have been disappointed by this. ‘Oh no, am. Just returning some items.’

Hope against hope, he smiled at this. He said, actually said, ‘missed you last week. On leave? Was served by rather slow girl-‘

‘Slow Sarah. I apologise. Girl needs a cattle prod up her arse.’

He raised eyebrows at this. So said, ‘ah, country term. You’re from the city, yes? Cattle prod would speed her up because-‘

‘Oh, I get the picture.’

Felt like comedian losing his audience. Asked if he was done with his shop, would take him through myself. Bright Eyes just needed some baked beans and then we were on way.

Not sure why, but felt much better, much more comfortable when there was a checkout between us. Like was in control. Wasn’t. Bright Eyes so dazzling.

‘Found out on the weekend you’re Paddy’s sister.’

Comment both pleased and terrified me. Pleased because it meant that Bright Eyes was talking about me outside of the supermarket. Very pleasing. Terrified because he knew Paddy. Knew how? Paddy lovely, lovely man. Lovely brother. But sometimes Paddy has problems. Sometimes Paddy not so lovely. Didn’t know which Paddy Bight Eyes knew. The lovely or not so lovely? If the latter than may very well be judged by association. Not good.

‘Not hard to tell,’ I said. ‘Look very similar, Paddy and me.’

‘Not that similar. You’re far more attractive. But don’t tell Paddy I said that.’ Smile.

Wanted. To. Die. Settled for, ‘ha, ha, ha, ha.’

Then the most terrible news. ‘Tells me you helped out a bit with his work at the church.’

Oh, crap. Utter crap. So that’s how Bright Eyes knew Paddy. At other world I have no part in. Paddy’s other life. Bright Eyes was a fecking Catholic. ‘You know Paddy from church?’ Please don’t let it be so, please don’t let it be so.

‘Yeah, of course, but-‘

Not interested. No longer interested. ‘That’ll be fifteen dollars seventy five.’

Bright Eyes taken back with abrupt end of conversation. Dam it all, was so close, too. He said I was attractive, did he not? Actually said I was more attractive than Paddy. But Paddy attractive man, which must mean that am not complete minger. Bet Bright Eyes thought, being Paddy’s sister, obviously Catholic myself; these things often go in families. Bright Eyes thought he’d found himself a good Catholic Girl. How wrong he could be! No Catholic would want to touch the likes of me with a ten-foot staff, or sceptre or whatever the hell it is the priest carries into mass with him.

Bright Eyes suddenly not so bright. Eyes too blue, if you know what I mean. Too good looking. Yes, is possible. Like Miranda Kerr. Look at her long enough and you realise she’s a little odd-looking. Eyes too far apart. Dimples too deep. Mouth too large.

In a perfect world Bright Eyes wouldn’t be Catholic and I’d have rampant sweat-enducing sex with him before discovering something that made him unattractive. Thing I’ve learnt, though. World very much not perfect place.

 

 

(27)

Driving along and saw tall man walking along side of road. Bright Eyes. Not in normal dress. Jeans and hoodie. Still incredibly gorgeous. Have decided – can’t hurt to perve, right? Know deep down nothing would happened anyhow so Catholicness null and void. Bright Eyes good looking older man. I, average-looking checkout chick. Was never going to be

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helping out paddy

Here’s the next instalment so far. Click on the link above to read the story so far

 

Checkout Chick is about to get interesting… be sure to follow the Giorge Thomas blog to be notified when it’s updated.

 

 

(25)

Given am not working and have no interests, really, told Paddy would help him out at his work. Paddy is a carpenter. Most of it boring joinery work but Paddy talented man. Carves wood beautifully. Most precious thing I own in the world is a wooden box carved out by Paddy, top of which inlaid with ornate roses. Paddy very good with furniture. One of a kind table and chairs and such like. Have tried to convince him over the years that he should have furniture store. Could sell pieces for thousands. Paddy scared, though. Not willing to take that step. Understand completely but shits me to tears, really. Have no talent myself so am envious and feel is bit of a waste to do nothing with it.

Should have asked Paddy where he was working before tagging along. Rookie mistake, really. Pulled up ute to church. Catholic church.

‘Christ, Paddy.’

‘Yes, Jesus Christ. Now don’t blaspheme when we’re in there, for Pete’s sake.’

‘Will burn if walk in there, Paddy,’ I told him. Had already begun to break out in sweats. ‘Not so good when you’re working with wood.’

‘Don’t be childish.’ Paddy already out of cab. Walking toward front doors. Had keys!

‘They give you keys?’ I yell out at him.

‘Of course they’ve given me keys. Have to do work, don’t I?’ Paddy coming back to start unloading shirting boards from ute.

Cripes alive. Am only atheist in entire family of devout Irish Catholics. Mum and Dad very devout which is why they and my other brothers don’t speak to me. This religious organisation and its fear and its rules is what fractured my life and family. Paddy devout, yes. Goes to mass every Sunday. Yet Paddy open-minded man and has the very strong belief that God is above all laws and restrictions of any religious organisation. Believes that God would and has forgiven me. That God understands. That I shouldn’t shut him out simply because a large majority of the church believe me to be wrong. But cannot accept that. Cannot have belief in something that has allowed such misery in my life. Paddy says it’s a test. I say a loving God would not test his faithful. Paddy and I agree to disagree on this subject. His faith has grounded him and helps him. He doesn’t have a go at me for turning my back on God. If I think about it, I guess Paddy acts in the way that Jesus did. Forgiving and loving to all. Trouble is, most of God’s people are unforgiving, judgmental and generally vicious. In other words; hateful. Is unbelievable paradox, no?

When Paddy and I walk through Church doors carrying long planks of wood – skirting boards – I didn’t immediately combust. Paddy made me stop while he crossed himself with holy water.

‘Are you going to do that every time we walk in?’ I asked. Would be a long day if that is the case.

‘No, you eejit,’ Paddy said. Being of Irish parentage we have always pronounced idiot the Irish way – eejit. Still. Is idiot or its Irish translation something you’re allowed to say inside a church?

Once we unloaded all the skirting boards we brought in Paddy’s tools. I was to help by handing him things. Like nurse and doctor in surgery. Instead of scalpel (‘scalpel’) it was hammer (‘hammer’) and such like.

‘Should this not be blessed or some shit before pulling it in?’ I wondered. Catholics like to bless everything. New homes when you move in, new cars, new babies.

‘Father Michael already did it back at the workshop,’ Paddy said.

‘Who the heck’s Father Michael? Thought priest here was Father Boog or some shit.’

Paddy shook his head. ‘I told you we’ve a new priest, Den. You never listen. He’s a nice bloke, too. You’d like him.’

Hate when people like that. You’ll like him, you’ll like her, when I’ve never even met them. Told Paddy so. ‘And besides,’ I continued, ‘you can’t judge a bloke you’ve only seen up on the pulpit.’

Paddy’s eye-rolling almost caused him to lose a thumb – not watching where his hammer was going. ‘See him outside of Church, Denni.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘Drinks at pub.’

‘He allowed to go to pub them?’

‘Cripes, Den. He’s Catholic, not Muslim. Yes, he goes to pub. And we play golf together. But he’s too good. Am going to have to stop playing with him. Was thinking, actually, that we should have him ’round for dinner.’

‘We will not.’ Was outraged.

‘He’s a bloke.’

‘He’s a priest. Am not having sold old dribbling man sitting in my house-‘

‘My house.’

‘All right, your house, our home, telling me how to live my life-‘

‘He’d never do that.’

‘He would. Is his job as a priest to tell others how to live their life.’

‘Well Michael wouldn’t. And he’s not old and dribbling. Not that it matters.’

No use trying to argue with Paddy when he’s angry, and could see the anger starting to creep in. Ears go red. Nothing else, just the ears. Lucky bastard. With me is whole face.

Quite uneasy being in the church. Jesus eyes. Watching me everywhere. Judging me. Swear they move, really. Weird being back in a church, mind. Yes, brought back memories, and yes, some of them were quite nice. Scent of incense took me back to childhood, particularly Christmas and midnight mass. Only time of the year we’d be allowed to stay up so late. We’d all squeeze into the church, for once there’d be no arguments as Mum and Dad never dared to whilst in God’s house. Afterwards we’d drive home, past all the houses with their Christmas lights still on, and Paddy and I’d be searching the skies for Santa. Good memories. Nice memories. The whole of childhood should be like that, really. Not just one day a year.

Paddy had finished one side of the church when heard door open and close in vestibule. Heard voice call out, ‘Have brought you beer, Paddy. Thought you’d be thirsty.’

Cripes alive. Was priest. Father Michael. Paddy all; oh good, you can meet him. I all; fuck, no, bye, bye. Did not want situation where was standing face to face with priest in church with him wondering why had never been to church. Far too uncomfortable. Ran. Yes, ran. Is running in church sacrilegious? Just another sin, I guess.

Not to know. Anyhow, got right bollocking from Paddy when he got home.

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mince and the great banana war

Here’s the next instalment of Checkout Chick. Click the link above to read the full story so far.

 

(24)

So I lasted one day. Turns out the reason most people go into work during leave is to gloat. Ha, ha, look at me, I don’t have to put up with any of this crap.

Half the staff saw me enter, obviously not for shopping purposes and decided it was smoko time. We all went out and took over the tables outside the deli.

Turns out am very lucky am not working this week. Poor Ralph, hands were shaking with rage – could barely light cigarette. I wasn’t aware what had happened because Today Tonight and A Current Affair have been banned from the household. ‘Is not current affairs!’ Is what Paddy often yells at the screen before changing it over. Ralph and various other members of the staff watch because ‘it’s important to know what the enemy is doing.’

There’s always some story or the other about the big supermarket chains. It’s either us or the petrol companies but seeing as though we’re buying out a lot of petrol stations we still get mentioned in the story. The last story was about how the two major supermarkets price fix to stamp out small business. Had a good chuckle about that one with staff from competition supermarket came over to check what price we were selling bananas for. Was after great banana war. Everyone (bar the fruit and veg shop that almost went under because of it) remembers it fondly.

Affected the whole town, the banana war. We weren’t directly affected because the only other shops in our complex are the deli, a newsagent (which am told by the grocery boys has pitiful supply of porn mags) and a hairdresser. We stayed out of it as best we could but the whole thing became so huge that many of us took off down the street to watch it unfold with our own eyes.

What happened, or so the story goes, is that the fruit and veg store next to our competitor got massive delivery of bananas at very reasonable price. This is after Queensland flooding when banana prices had just begun to come down after record highs of fifteen dollars a kilo. Was ridiculous. Strange thing is, only ever had real craving for bananas when they became financially unattainable. You don’t really care if your banana has a bruise on it when their at regular price but when you’ve had to mortgage your house just to buy a bunch it kind of pisses you off.

At this point bananas were selling for $5.99 per kilo. Good price for current climate. Fruit and veg store gets surplus stock and puts price at $4.99. Being in the same complex meant that our competitors had to match the price. Fruit and veg owner, tired of having prices beaten by supermarket chain with immense buying power thought, fUck you, ya bastards. Brought his prices down again.

Might I add that all of these events happened on one single day.

Fruit and veg owner got the supermarket down to $2.99. Ridiculous! Trouble was, supermarket running out of stock. Fast. Rang suppliers, trying to get bananas. Didn’t know fruit and veg place was having same problem. Didn’t know that both were playing same dirty tricks as the other – ie, going and purchasing bananas from one another’s store and re-selling the bananas. Supermarket managed to convince other stores in area to hair their bananas deivered to them. Prices got down to 99c a kilo. When news came in that this happened – by way of one of our regulars walking into store and screaming it at the top of his lungs – our store emptied. Mel decided price too good to be true and went to buy some herself but was forced to take orders from us staff who had to stay and work. Vince from fruit and veg realised that price was cheaper than wholesale price so he took Marco to buy stock for our store.

Town was awash with bananas. No one could allow such cheap prices to pass them by. Every bakery in town sold banana cake for the next week. Cafes had banana-orientated deserts. Delis and sandwich shops sold banana milk shakes this time with real banana, not just flavouring and Sunday Paddy came back from Church to announce that almost every product sold at the old lady cake stall had banana in it. We ate many deep friend bananas. Was madness. Really. And all because large supermarket chain couldn’t be beaten by small mum and dad store. Our competitors made a killing. Unlike fruit and veg people, they had other goods to sell. When popping into supermarket for insanely cheap bananas, might as well buy a few other bits and pieces while there.

Banana day was best we ever had – hardly any customers.

Anyway, was in middle of story about today, wasn’t I? Yes. So either Today Tonight or A Current Affair, or maybe even both of them (because even after frequent stories on supermarket price matching both current affair shows often have similar stories on same night. Like was planned or something) featured a story about big supermarkets treating mince meat with some kind of chemical that made meat appear redder than actually was.

Had proper butcher from old-fashioned butcher store give demonstration of what mince meat looks like in proper form. He was wearing white doctors coat, hairnet and hand rounded, friendly face so viewers would find him trustworthy (so said Ralph who also wears white coat and hair net but whose face is definitely not rounded by rather pointy. Perhaps he’s prejudiced against round-faced people). The expert butcher was not allowed to state the name of his shop but ‘they snuck it in,’ Ralph said. During wide-angled shots of the display cabinet. Ralph claims was a set-up because all customers were smiling and butchers behind counter (1) didn’t have any blood on their whites and (2) weren’t rolling eyes with impatience.

Because of story Ralph had been called out (‘seven!’) times so far to speak with customers (usually elderly) demanding to know whether meat included this additive.

‘Of course it bloody does,’ Ralph told all of us, when asked point blank. ‘No one wants to buy brown mince. Want it bright red, don’t they? Doesn’t happen naturally. Wouldn’t buy the stuff if was brown. Asked each and every one of those customers and they all said no. Doesn’t mean meat is off. Doesn’t mean will kill ’em. Not in small doses, anyways. Just looks prettier, dunnit?’

Think that Ralph’s annoyance is more to do with his increased people-contact. Ten thirty and seven customers already. Usually if customer requires specific cut of meat or what have you he can simply grunt and nod his way through transaction. Today was actually forced into conversation.

 

 

 

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another bit of checkout chick…

Here’s the next instalment of Checkout Chick. Click the link above to read the full story so far.

 

(22)

Checkout Chicks are like builders (own homes never finished). Cannot abide grocery shopping. Wonder if prostitutes have similar problem – come home from night of sex, takes one look at boyfriend and says, no thank you, have been fucking all day. Particularly hate shopping at work. If you’re in the store you’re on call. Once when doing weekly shop and heard own name being called over PA. ‘Denni, please open checkout two. Denni.’ Mass of customers in queues, vast queues, looking around to see where this so-called Denni was. Lazy, they’re thinking. We’re standing around waiting to be served and she’s not at her checkout where she should always be. I appear, carting trolley. ‘Am finished. No longer working.’ Sue, second in charge, didn’t seem to care. Nor did customers. I cared. Had chocolate chip ice cream in my trolley. Only reason that lines were so long is because Slow Sarah was on duty. Have tried to tell Mel a number of times – when you roster Slow Sarah onto a shift you need an extra person.

Could go to other supermarket in town, of course, but that would be silly. No discount there. And what’s the point of working on checkout unless you can get a ten percent discount? No point, no point at all.

Have banned Paddy from shopping expeditions. He’s too slow. Wants to look at everything. Is especially interested in items with a reduced-to-clear sticker. Is odd because he’ll then go and spend five dollars extra on a particular box of muesli. We also argue on milk – Paddy thinks is okay to by home brand yet I always refuse. Know for a fact (as many of them are customers) that Dairy Farmers (brand) pay dairy farmers (farmers) more for milk than anyone else. Support those who support the community, I say. Also we argue over milk size. For whatever reason I cannot poor milk from a two litre bottle. When making nightly after-dinner drinks (tea or hot chocolate for Paddy, instant coffee for me) there is much swearing from kitchen as milk is spilled. What is wrong with cartons anyway? Simple ingenious device. Why mess with it? Plus spout offers perfect pouring solution.

We also have difference of opinion on paper towels (me expensive doesn’t-break-up-when-wet Handy Ultra variety and Paddy, home brand) as well as toilet paper. We both agree on the thick but soft sturdy stuff but Paddy likes the scented variety where as I am adamant that perfumes and such like are not good for my lady bits.

Often shopping is undertaken on Sunday’s when Paddy is at church. he complains about non-involvement before realising he has bacon and a full packet of Tim Tams in the fridge and reluctantly agrees that I’d done an okay job on the task.

Question – what did we do as a nation before Tim Tams? Am sure they’re not always been around – yes? What other chocolate-filled and chocolate-coated biscuits satisfied us beforehand? For the life of me cannot think of one. Don’t think there’s ever been an occasion when there wasn’t Tim Tams in the pantry.

 

(23)

Am on leave. No checkout chicking for me. Not going away or anything, and is just for a week. Is forced on me. Have got too much holiday pay. Suppose big-wigs in head office have an alarm that goes off once someone reaches a certain point. Red flashing lights and all. Fear is that if I quit there’s a lot of jingle they have to pay out to me. Would rather it not happen. Am not going to be that person. That person. The poor sod who has no life outside of the supermarket and therefore goes into work to chat to everyone. No. Hate the place. Hate my job. Why would I want to go there?

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cigarettes, bright eyes and marco

Here’s the next instalment to Checkout Chick. Click the link above to read it from the beginning.

(19)

The mystery of the missing cigarette cartons has been revealed, and hasn’t been pleasant. Exciting, yes. Pleasant, no. Mel was behind it all. Not the stealing of the cigarettes, but of discovering the culprit. Suspicious of what had occurred on mornings Monica and I opened. So Mel opened herself one morning, having worked late the previous night. Knew how many cartons there were. Called Dorothy in when there were missing cartons again.

Many, many cartons discovered in the boot of Tony’s car. House searched by police. Terrible, terrible situation. Boozer was all, ‘told you he was an arsehole.’ Not quite correct. Is a thief, not an arsehole. But have realised. Boozer’s opinion of people always correct. May not be good at pulling pants up, Boozer, but good at judging people.

We all feel a bit tainted, really, having someone like that amongst us. Angry calls to head office regarding Tony’s placement. Now head office is busy calling other stores he’s worked for. What worries me is if some poor sod like me has been sacked at other stores because they’ve taken the blame. Very easy to blame lowly checkout chick. Very easy. Is like when $200 was missing from float. First conclusion was that it must have been me, not the superior that had counted wrong. Is very telling, that is.

(20)

Bright Eyes. Is so, so gorgeous. Adore him. Think has very well moved on from normal checkout crush – crush due to boredom rather than actual attract-ability – to actual crush. Stomach does weird kind of hollow thing. Feel a little nauseas even.

Bright Eyes always comes in through my checkout. Cannot stop evaluating what he buys. He likes his milk. Cereal big help. Bought nutrigrain. Nutri-Grain masculine breakfast cereal would have been different if he’d bought Cornflakes or Special K. But Nutri-Grain. Tells me most definitely that Bright Eyes lives alone.

Also bought deodorant. Tells me he has good personal hygiene. Bought Nivea for Men. Not sure what that says about him, mind. If he’d bought Brute, could have said he was a bogan. Obviously, is not.

Again no card but cash. Doesn’t Bright Eyes know we’re in a digital age? However, today there was conversation. Not just a hello from him and ‘that’ll be eight dollars ninety’ from me.

‘How’re you doing today?’

‘Yes, um, good.’ Cripes alive. Should be me asking him how he is.

‘So. You have much on this weekend, or do you have to work?’

‘Crikey, I never work weekends.’

‘Lucky you.’ Was no bitterness but decided from polite banter he does work weekends. Ask him what he does. Ask him what he does! Was yelling this to self. Didn’t work. Couldn’t open mouth to utter the words. Is probably am because am not a hairdresser. They’re nosy to all hell. Ask many, many personal questions when in chair. Is like some special course is taken when at hairdressing school. Suspect hairdressers better at interrogation than FBI. Possibly why I stopped going to hairdressers to get colour done (premature greying). Is longer spent in chair and therefore more opportunity to pester you. Also; Paddy been out with many, many hairdressers and inevitably you end up with one who knows he’s your brother and then you get the ‘why didn’t he call?’ speech.

Despite lack of nosiness in self, Bright Eyes nosy man by nature. Or perhaps inquisitive. Or perhaps just being nice and this is normal behaviour and am so un-normal that I don’t even realise it. He said –

‘So you live in town?’

‘Yes, yes. In town. You?’

‘Yes, yes, same. Just moved.’

‘Why?’ Couldn’t help self. Town a shit hole.

Wry smile. ‘Work.’

‘Well. Hope they’re paying you lots of money.’ Transaction finished so handing over change. Bright Eyes has lovely, lovely hands. Have told you am hands obsessed? Am hands obsessed. If man has beautiful hands does not matter what face is like. Fortunately Bright Eyes had beautiful both.

He laughed at my money comment. No. Chuckled. Then kind of nodded before telling me it didn’t matter what you got paid as long as you enjoyed it.

Obviously Bright Eyes rich. Only rich people would talk such nonsense.

(21)

Marco beginning to be a bit of a problem. Have said no to him one too many times and the man has pride, after all. Mistake made by Marco was telling others he fancied me. Don’t think he ever really fancied me per say, just am most attractive fish in the tank if you know what I mean.

According to Marco my constant denials must mean one thing and one thing only – that am big fat lezzer.

Is wonderful, no, that the male species has come such a long way? In high school if you reject a man you are called frigid, in adulthood, a lesbian. As if being lesbian big terrible thing. Really shows how far we haven’t come when lesbian being used as an insult.

Have I unwillingly led Marco on in anyway? I don’t think I have, really, but am not always that aware of own behaviour. Did go round to his house once, early on. This before he was openly talking about his fully-sick subwoofers. Remember sitting in shed with can of coke and feeling that whole situation quite juvenile. Not at all asked into the house. Then old bandy-legged woman with jet black hair, thick gold-hooped earrings and an apron waddled into shed, caught sight of me and started screeching in Italian. Caught the word ‘putana’ in the mix of words, knew well what that meant. Hadn’t known Marco still lived at home. Hadn’t known he was in one of those Italian families.

I’ll tell you the type. Grew up in an Italian community so know the story well. The boys live at home with their mother who does everything for them. They sleep around but are never satisfied with women because what they really want is someone like their mother who does everything for them and modern girls just aren’t like that. In turn Italian mother refers to all women – particularly ‘Australiaans’ (ie, non-Italians) as sluts because their greatest fear is their little prince being taken away from them. This is because, more often than not, their own husbands barely talk to them as their wives never lived up to their own mothers. Their sons are all those Italian women have.

Daughters of Italian households are expected to be virgins at marriage and aren’t allowed to move out of home until their wedding day. These girls will often settle for pretty much anyone just to get out of the house or spend their lives playing the virgin while being the biggest slut in the world.

Is madness to get involved in this kind of thing either way. May have settled for a bit of fun with Marco, but being presented with his family life like that had me thinking twice. His mum still glares at me whenever she comes in to do her shopping. Scrutinises everything I do. Change I give her, items I scan. Simply because she saw me alone with her precious Marco.

If it wasn’t for Paddy I’d tell her (if she could understand English that is) that her little family isn’t so precious after all. That her daughter, Pia, shouldn’t have worn white at her elaborate wedding (four hundred guests at a function centre in the city) because Pia was something of a putana herself, sleeping with Paddy right up until her kitchen party.

If there’s one thing I hate in life is hypocrites.

Marco will continue to be bane of my existence until he finds another poor sod to stroke his ego. Hope it happens soon as can’t be bothered with the drama of it all.

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