I've been reminded of this tale from yesteryear by a tale from the main section of the site. Settle back, for this involves much of the munching of popcorn, and many slurps of the syrupy drinks.
It's showtime!
So, let us go to the time when I was caught up in a sticky web of intrigue otherwise known as retiail. Fruit, veg, meat - that calibre of thing. We sold food, and it was for the most part wholesome.
It came to pass that on a summery day, a lady of mature aspect came in to buy some of said food, trailing behind her a youth of perhaps eight years of age at most. His vacant stare was the only warning I was to get of his brainlessness to come, but you cannot judge a child on first sight in this way.
Around went the grandmother, filling her basket with all manner of goods. "Graps, you like grapes, don't you? Oh, some peaches, and maybe some plums. I think I'll have to get some bananas, and..." The basket filled at a rate that nearly made my eyes have pound signs, but since I can only aspire to be a cartoon character, I missed the chance.
Basket at the ready, she came to the counter where the Boss watched with interest, and the ancient ritual known as the ringing up of the goods commenced. The total was presented, whereupon the lady brought out a list on a piece of paper. She compared this to the money she had, the total on the register, and what she still needed to get.
"Hmm, she needs to get a magazine. I'll have to put the bananas back. Oh, some petrol as well - the melon and the grapes will have to go back." Item after item was ticked on her list, and food went back onto the shelves. "Hmm, she needs cigarettes as well," she mused. After this tick was made, the only thing left on the counter was one baking potato for the child's evening meal. I'll repeat that - one baking potato. The price? Less than twenty pence sterling.
It is for this reason that I suspect the reason for his future behaviour was malnutrition.
I'll continue this sorry saga in parts, partly as I remember them and partly as I have time. Some of you will remember a few details of these, especially when I mention that he was the son of the hairdresser, but that time was yet to come.
To be continued...
Rapscallion
It's showtime!
So, let us go to the time when I was caught up in a sticky web of intrigue otherwise known as retiail. Fruit, veg, meat - that calibre of thing. We sold food, and it was for the most part wholesome.
It came to pass that on a summery day, a lady of mature aspect came in to buy some of said food, trailing behind her a youth of perhaps eight years of age at most. His vacant stare was the only warning I was to get of his brainlessness to come, but you cannot judge a child on first sight in this way.
Around went the grandmother, filling her basket with all manner of goods. "Graps, you like grapes, don't you? Oh, some peaches, and maybe some plums. I think I'll have to get some bananas, and..." The basket filled at a rate that nearly made my eyes have pound signs, but since I can only aspire to be a cartoon character, I missed the chance.
Basket at the ready, she came to the counter where the Boss watched with interest, and the ancient ritual known as the ringing up of the goods commenced. The total was presented, whereupon the lady brought out a list on a piece of paper. She compared this to the money she had, the total on the register, and what she still needed to get.
"Hmm, she needs to get a magazine. I'll have to put the bananas back. Oh, some petrol as well - the melon and the grapes will have to go back." Item after item was ticked on her list, and food went back onto the shelves. "Hmm, she needs cigarettes as well," she mused. After this tick was made, the only thing left on the counter was one baking potato for the child's evening meal. I'll repeat that - one baking potato. The price? Less than twenty pence sterling.
It is for this reason that I suspect the reason for his future behaviour was malnutrition.
I'll continue this sorry saga in parts, partly as I remember them and partly as I have time. Some of you will remember a few details of these, especially when I mention that he was the son of the hairdresser, but that time was yet to come.
To be continued...
Rapscallion
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