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.)