Incident at Till 2

I suppose I’m in a sensitive mood
Maybe I was always sensitive
That’s my problem, or one of them

(Breaks out chocolate biscuits 
I ought to be working by now)

I’d been WhatApping over breakfast
Current state of affairs and all that
My, how things have changed
And how quickly, or is it just me?

A trolley of stuff for the week
Shuffling in the queue

“Caja numero dos!”

Move forward

“Buenos días!” to the girl

“Buenos días!  Quieres bolsas?”

I told her two bags please
And started placing the stuff on the till
Heavy and hard things first
I’m meticulous like that

She was putting the stuff through
Piling it on the metal chute where you pack

A middle aged woman, smartly dressed
Stood talking to a man – husband? – in front of the chute

“Perdone.”  I asked

Or perhaps it was “Perdona.”

My final “e” and “a” sound the same anyway

She looked me up and down 
Finishing with a theatrical “Tut!”

I’d seen her at look the couple with the kid the same way
The father was Spanish
The kid had dark skin, tight curls, about two years old
I’d watched him fall on the floor trying to carry a jar
His parents spoke to each other English

The middle aged woman had raised herself to full height
And tutted

Now it was my turn

I smiled at the check out girl and packed
Said “No.” when she asked about a loyalty card
Asked to pay “con tarjeta”
Tapped in my PIN
The middle aged woman and man were stood in the door

Then I smiled to myself – I don’t know why
And whistled Dylan’s “Obviously 5 Believers”
Which elected itself song of the morning

I tried not to jump to conclusions

Paranoia, first off

Cultural infringement, perhaps
“Perdone” / “Perdona”
  Formal    /   Informal

But I’m usually cut some slack
Being foreign
People most often being generous

Then there’s status

Oh, she’d plenty of that

It’s what we do, isn’t it?

I thought of a mate from St. Kitts
Years ago
I never really understood

Skin colour

How you speak

“Usted”  /  “Tu”

How you stand

What you wear

Who you threaten

It’s all there

I’d watched a man in the cafe at breakfast
Shouting at his mobile phone
Speaker squawking his mate’s harsh voice
I’d looked at his skin and his clothes

“South American” I’d decided.