Well known department store. Not dead keen to name names as I'm still expecting some kind of legal documentation, possibly a writ, any day now. Christmas decorations department. Shop assistants dressed as elves and clearly, understandably unamused and unimpressed. Me? Tired, ailed, rushed and very un-festivy.
A particularly dopey elf: "Well, we don't have those lights in stock right now. Yes, I know they are on display. No, you can't have the display we need those... to display. Yes, I can order them for you, they will take about 6-8 weeks. What? Sorry? Erm, no I can't really help"
I had that elongated pathetic excuse for an elf quivering in his rubber, tinsel-topped, stupid, pointy boots. Adopting my seldom used Penelope Keith tones, sweat dripping down the back of my neck into my ski jacket, I laid into the poor chap. Both barrels. I was hot and stressed and harbouring an increasing fear that I may have mislaid my parking ticket in the men's loo (queue too long for the ladies). Let's face it, the goblin didn't stand a chance.
Dismay Factor Percentage:
Honestly? At the time it felt pretty good. For about 3 minutes. On reflection? Not my finest hour. So ultimately I'd give it a 67 when my friend's little boy, who unfortunately witnessed my outburst took my hand and said, "Maybe it would be best if you sit in your room when you get home and count to ten before you come out again."
Yeah right. Or crack open that Chardonnay.
For more strops of the week (usually child not parent!), look here.
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