Queuing
The British are said to be great at queuing. However! I have to report an incident of... deviant queuing.
Having wandered into town at lunch time (well, it is crazy cattle market Wednesday after all), I opted to take lunch from The Potato Man - a man who sells potatoes. From a well-equipped van. Many many potatoes. Doth he sell. Letting my mind wander back to the stunner who I'd acknowledged in the paper shop earlier (our's is an alternative farming community), I was interrupted. By a... slapping noise. Now paying more attention to the two people in front of me in the potato queue, I noticed that apart from their smoochy soppy frippy froppy queuing technique (they would delay my potato at their peril!), I noticed that Mr Soppy was occasionally (and quite unaware of himself) slapping the denim-clad arse of Ms Soppy. Her blushfulness suggested that she was a little more self-conscious, but again he idly slapped.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Gladly, The Potato Man's Chicken Curry is so fine that it would take more than an errant queuer to put me off my lunch. However, let me tell you that so distracting was this firm-but-affectionate slap-slap-slapping that had it not been for the restraining presence of Marie I would surely have stabbed Mr Soppy in the hand with the nearest blue plastic fork. Of this I am not proud, but my god, someone's got to draw the line when it comes to queuing for potatoes.
I know. This aggressive tone probably surprises you. In fact, I sense...
Ugh!
Having wandered into town at lunch time (well, it is crazy cattle market Wednesday after all), I opted to take lunch from The Potato Man - a man who sells potatoes. From a well-equipped van. Many many potatoes. Doth he sell. Letting my mind wander back to the stunner who I'd acknowledged in the paper shop earlier (our's is an alternative farming community), I was interrupted. By a... slapping noise. Now paying more attention to the two people in front of me in the potato queue, I noticed that apart from their smoochy soppy frippy froppy queuing technique (they would delay my potato at their peril!), I noticed that Mr Soppy was occasionally (and quite unaware of himself) slapping the denim-clad arse of Ms Soppy. Her blushfulness suggested that she was a little more self-conscious, but again he idly slapped.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Gladly, The Potato Man's Chicken Curry is so fine that it would take more than an errant queuer to put me off my lunch. However, let me tell you that so distracting was this firm-but-affectionate slap-slap-slapping that had it not been for the restraining presence of Marie I would surely have stabbed Mr Soppy in the hand with the nearest blue plastic fork. Of this I am not proud, but my god, someone's got to draw the line when it comes to queuing for potatoes.
I know. This aggressive tone probably surprises you. In fact, I sense...
Ugh!
posted by Shane @ 5:00 pm
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