Of all the times I rant and rave, yesterday was a small but sublime moment, courtesy of Mrs OR! My attitude to Labours' creation of a State controlled Britain and their allies on our big, global, corporate, planet Earth, are well documented throughout this blog. That includes a beef against the Halal force feeding, greedy, profiteering, bullying of the supermarket world of image driven slavery and arrogant dominance over our lives. Tesco is my bete noir.
Though in a small, beautiful, rural town, this ugly corporation plies its trade with the same manic desire to legally rob the Eloys, as it applies to the slums and backwaters of the modern, multicultural cess pits that are our dear socialist, inner city EU masters' dream. A dream pursued by the reckless ignorance of the Labour Party with yet more economic egg on their faces this very day.
Anyway, I digress. We relatively happily potter round this unusually small store and collect, as best we can, healthy fruit, meats and sustenance. All the time with me struggling to lose the image of slaughter bequeathed us by that joyous, feminine loving, decent religion we are all invited to wonderfully embrace and adore. We fill our basket carefully, modestly but we feel, sensibly and wend our way to a busy checkout area. However, a considerable number of tills are unmanned and sit reflecting the disdain in which we hapless supplicants at this altar of manipulation are held. Just suckers to be plucked by a faceless, multi billion profit making poultry processing factory. Battery shopping if you will. So the fragrant, calm, unflappable, lovely Mrs OR says, let's use the auto till. Off we go. They sat like malevolent, sulky, spoilt brats. We brief on the necessary orders and procedures and waft our first item, a bunch of Millipede majors, over the scanner. Then it started. Don't this, do that, press this, FAIL!!!!!!
Up came Miss Irma. Honestly, apart from a very small stature, identical. After pushing the same buttons as we had done, flashing the Millipedes several times, with the same disastrous lecture and FAIL, she harangues us for attempting to check out too many items via the "death to human checkout staff" machine. Now we had only offered one thingy for consideration at this point. A boiling and only a second earlier, jolly, OR, walked away in order to avoid the probable assault charge. I turned to witness a look I only ever see very rarely on Mrs Or's face. It's a quiet, determined, elegant, fully controlled and always justifiable, anger. She pushed gently but firmly, the £80.00 worth of laden trolley, back into the store area, where Irma weakly tried to nudge it back towards Mrs OR and stupidly threatening Mrs OR with security. For what reason? Deciding not too purchase? Basket rage? What? I moved forward and realising what Mrs OR was doing, took the forlorn Millipedes from the recalcitrant platform and tossed them on top of the basket, saying clearly but not too loudly, thank you we we won't be wanting these.
As my friend and neighbour would say, "Don't mess with us Oldies!!" We drove 12 miles to another town and skipped round Morrison's like a pair of mischievous ten year olds who had just thumped the school bully and got away with it!