Unhappy Chappy

catfoodOn my travels today I called by the zoo Pets At Home for some cat food to keep Peppa happy. Despite it being a weekday, and as far as I’m aware not a school holiday, there were still a large number of children in there being shown the animals by their parents.

I surprised myself, to be honest, by not hanging around and looking at everything for ages. I normally have a look when I’m with Carole but don’t feel I can stand there for ages in case she thinks I’m considering the logistic of a chinchilla, or how Peppa would get on with a rat/guinea pig/hamster/mouse or rabbit.

Which of course I am not.

At all.

Honestly.

As I was queuing to pay for the cat food – the quantity of which did not seem heavy until I put it in my rucksack and walked into town with it – I had the joy of being stuck behind a man who had decided that his first public fight of the day (it was just after 9) would be with the staff of said pet supply chain.

He was a reptile owner. I know that because he explained, at length, to the cashier about different types of reptile and how the reptile he had was a reptile just like all the other reptiles. He then proceeded to reel off a string of grievances relating to things that he has not been able to buy there for the last two weeks.

I can only assume he has this reptile, whatever it may be – I couldn’t fathom that out, on some kind of part work basis and is slowly assembling its habitat or something. Because he’s definitely been in for at least six things in the past two weeks that they didn’t have. And it’s a bloody joke. And he’s going to go somewhere else from now on.

And all the cashier did was say, “We can’t sell everything.” And then, as the man issued his ultimatum about never shopping there again just said, “Alright mate, that’s fine.” I love people like that. I used to love being able to do things like that. Because, for some reason, a lot of people believe that the service they want, or item they are after, is only available if you kick off a bit before hand.

It’s like a secret menu in McDonalds or whatever. You have to know how to ask for the very specific thing you want. And if you ask correctly, you can have it. Or, in this – and many other cases – shout about it and make threats to go elsewhere. As if the member of staff is going to turn around and say, “Ah, now that you have raised your voice to the required decibel level I am happy to tell you that you have access to…”

It’s not how it works. It really isn’t.

I especially like the bit, which always happens during the rant, where the ranter turns to another customer in the shop, or whatever, and looks at them in a way which is supposed to make that other person agree with everything that is being said. Like all it takes to start the revolution to get Pets At Home to stock the one specific reptile item that one specific man needs is for him and one other person with his arms full of cat food to rise up against the oppression. Stick it to the man. All that jazz.

Not on my watch, mate. I’m not having anything to do with your wittering bollocks.

There’s a rabbit over there that is cute and lovely and suddenly the main focus of my attention.

Now I wonder how it would get on with a cat…

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