Fluffing It.


While I have no issue with how people perceive my masculinity, I draw the line at asking the staff in Wilkinson where they keep their feather dusters.

(To me, not stocking them wasn't an option.)

The problem is I know, for some unfathomable reason, I'm perceived by the man-on-the-street as a level-pegging amusing / perplexing mash-up, and that’s before I’ve even opened my mouth. So why would I want to unnecessarily contribute to my gauche appearance? It’s practically science.

What made things worse was, even though the duster was the only item I wanted, I still picked up a shopping basket. This put me in a no-win situation: if I had nothing in it when I questioned the staff - or worse, when I reached the counter - I’d somehow be underlining my ridiculous purchase. The only way out was to find where they stored their camp cleaning implements by myself and pad out my plunder with other products (much like buying porn).

That's why God (or J. Sainsbury) gave us the self-service checkout: to eliminate the awkwardness. It’s also why, when buying greeting cards, I hand them to the cashier face-down: I just don’t need to have register their judgement. 

(I hope Ken Dodd orders his feather dusters online in bulk.)

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