My salad dressing days

I was shopping the other month with my dear chum The Plate Invigilator.

[It may surprise you to learn that I loathe shopping. I will only agree to a shopping expedition if it is heavily punctuated with breakfast, tea, lunch and coffee breaks.]

We were in our favourite shop (a common-or-garden chain within a groaningly large department store with delusions of grandeur) and within the space of seven minutes, I had grabbed four items of clothing, tried them on and got myself to the till to buy them (my dislike of shopping does make me very decisive).

I handed them to the shop assistant, we exchanged pleasantries (‘ooh, what’s the weather like outside? is it still raining? I’d never know in here!’…’oh, you poor soul…yes, it’s still tipping it down and here’s me with no umbrella!’) and she began to ring up and wrap up my goods.

Shop assistant: Oh, this is a lovely skirt! And it’s so, well, forgiving!
[Read: you’re fat. This item is a marvel at disguising reams of cellulite.]

Shop assistant: I like this top. I think you’ll find it travels eversowell.
[Read: you clearly don’t own an iron. Just look at those linen trousers!]

It was clear that I was expected to smile moronically at these comments. Which I did (of course).

Hello? Do they think we have not learnt some rudimentary Shopassistantspeak?

Where on earth is your government?

Somehow this shocks me more than the aftermath of the hurricane itself.

American Red Cross