Feeling the Pinch

Anyone else feeling the pinch now that Christmas is out of the way?  A shopping trip yesterday made me realise just how skint we actually are.

Hubby had given me cash to do the shopping as Christmas has, through necessity, been on credit cards and overdrafts.  Typically we also desperately needed some new school shoes for J so I took him with me and got them on the way. £40 later (£40! I’d planned on £30) we set off again, only then noticing that the fuel gauge was on zero.  Another stop for diesel ate into the money further so by the time we got to the supermarket I was £30 under budget.

I had a list but as the trolley piled higher I started to worry that I wouldn’t have enough.  I reached the checkout and watched as the total crept up, coming to £32 over the cash I had.  Sweating a bit because I knew I had hardly anything in my account as my direct debits had just come out, I tried my card…which the cashier loudly announced had been declined.

He looked at me pityingly and offered to store the transaction.  I couldn’t bear driving home and back so I quietly informed him that I’d have to put some items back.  He smiled kindly…then promptly yelled to his supervisor, ‘I’ll have to take off thirty-two pounds’ worth on this one because this lady doesn’t have enough money.’  Cue all heads in the vicinity whipping around to stare at the poor cow in question.

My skin started to prickle and I could feel the colour rising from my neck to infuse my face with an attractive shade of puce.  They may as well have stripped me naked and made me dance to Gangnam Style.

Unfortunately my humiliation was a long, long way from over. I’d had the good fortune to choose a cashier with the voice of a foghorn, the tact of Katie Hopkins and a serious case of verbal diarrhoea.  ‘I’m just worried about these ladies behind her having to wait’, he boomed.  ‘It’s £32 so it may take some time’, he added helpfully…just in case the person browsing in Aisle 24 hadn’t heard him the first time.

It turned out that the supervisor was also at the end of a very long line when they were giving out sympathy, tact and indeed, quiet voices.  She proceeded to shout at the top of her voice, ‘Rob, can you open this till, please?  This lady has to take thirty-two pounds off her shopping and we don’t want these other customers waiting because it might take a while.’  F***ing hell, why not ask him to find me a price for Vagisil and pile cream whilst you’re at it?  You can use the tannoy if that helps?

With face burning I snuck a glance at the people behind me as the cashier slowly and excruciatingly announced how much there was to go: £23.42…£18.27…£14.12…As suspected, they were looking at me as though I was something nasty they’d just wiped off their shoe.  I wanted to shout at them, ‘It’s just been Christmas and we’ve had three children to buy for! Stop looking at me as though you think I spent all my money on crack cocaine!’

Then, to make matters worse, J kept asking, ‘Mum, why are you putting all the stuff back?’  I furiously rifled through bags, avoiding eye contact and trying to assess what we could do without and what items were essential…stuff for the kids’ packed lunches, washing powder, coffee and wine all made the cut, obviously.  Not so successful were bottles of water and cat food (I had wine.  At that moment in time I didn’t really give a stuff about the cat).

After what felt like an age it got to the point when there was only £3.81 left…so then the final instalment of my mortification began: rooting through my purse to copper up, amid more (real or imagined?) sighing and impatient shuffling of feet.  The till finally banged shut and I gratefully grabbed my receipt.  I was about to make my hasty retreat with my tail between my legs and my dignity somewhere amongst the large pile of groceries I had left behind.  The cashier, however, had other plans.

He stared at me until I was forced to make eye contact.  Then, with a look of patronising concern in his eyes, he asked in a loud stage whisper, ‘Are you OK?’  Oh shit, I thought, say something quick or I just know he’s going to come out from behind the till and try to hug me.  Kill me.  Kill me now.

What I wanted to say was, ‘F*** off, you condescending git!’  Instead, with all the dignity I could muster, I did the very ‘English’ thing and muttered, ‘I’m fine, thank you’…then rapidly walked away with J and his friend trailing behind before he could offer me a self-help leaflet on managing my finances.

When I got home I told the whole sorry tale to my husband to which he infuriatingly replied, ‘You should have said you wouldn’t have enough! I had another hundred quid in  my wallet!’  Arrrrggghhh!