Newspaper hustle.


I’ve got a cracking scam going with my newsagent, where he keeps misreading the price of my paper as 60p.


I should probably feel guilty about it, but I don’t. I’ve not done anything to deliberately mislead him. The responsibility falls squarely on the head of the graphic designer. I’m merely an accessory after the fact.

I’m currently getting my news at 57% less than the going rate and it feels amazing.

Every time I join the queue I wonder if today’s the day when my number will finally be up. "Surely he’ll spot it this time", I think to myself. It’s been going on for weeks; months, even. You'd think he’d pick up on my guilt instinctively, like a dog smelling fear on a human.

Sometimes I put the paper on the counter so it rests dangerously close to the price-scanner. It’s like playing chicken with myself; purposely edging closer to the moment when I am eventually found out. He never takes the bait; as far as he’s concerned, The Independent costs 60p and that’s that. He has absolutely no inkling of my nasty little secret.

Perhaps one day I’ll give him £1.40 in exact coinage and tell him to keep the change. He’ll think I’m being generous, when all I’m doing is paying the RRP.

Ultimately I’m living on borrowed time. Sometime in the not-to-distant future he’ll be quietly restocking the shelves when his gaze will fall top-right of the page. His eyes will narrow as the realisation dawns – and it’s from that moment on that I’ll have to watch my back.

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