It happened again, people. I popped out to the supermarket (not the Ghetto Supermarket, alas, just the ordinary one) to procure some wine and Haribo sweets for Terry and I to enjoy during tonight’s Big Brother Final. (Terry doesn’t like wine and I’d kind of eaten all the Haribo sweets by the time I got home, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, y’know?).
As I placed my items carefully on the conveyor belt thingie, ignoring the pensioner who was repeatedly slamming her trolley into my back (There’s always one, isn’t there?), though, I noticed the checkout woman clocking me suspiciously. It was then that I knew it was about to happen again: our lady of the till had clearly mistaken me for a madcap teenage tearaway, intent on scampering off to the bike sheds to "get wrecked" with my hooligan "mates", on a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Because I bet that’s exactly the teenage binge-drinker’s tipple of choice these days, isn’t it?
Sure enough: "I’ll need to see ID" she snapped, challenging me with her eyes. I rooted through my wallet, dislodging eighteen credit cards, two press cards (WHY?) and a passport-sized picture of a slightly-demented looking Terry before finally handing over my driving license. She scrutinized it carefully before handing it back, wordlessly. "I love it when this happens," I quipped, hilariously. And actually? I totally do. It used to offend me when I was asked for ID. Now it’s quite thrilling. The last time before this one was on Christmas Eve, when I attempted to buy one of those cheesy "A Gift from Scotland!" things that have a whisky miniature in them. Because, again, that’s exactly what I’d buy if I were an underage drinker. I mean, is it just me, or are teenage delinquents getting more sophisticated? When I were a lass (this was all fields, then) it was a can of warm shandy if you were lucky: now it’s Pinot Grigio and single malt whisky. God, I’ve made myself feel old again.
I dunno, maybe it was the Haribo sweets that did it? Or the fact that I was wearing – gasp! – a hoodie. I won’t be calling off the Botox just yet, anyway, that’s for sure. (Joking! I’m joking! I’m not considering botox. I’m considering a Hydrafil instead.)
Anyway, the wine is cooling in the fridge, the Haribo mix is chilling in my belly and I will now spend the rest of the day calling the Big Brother winner’s line repeatedly to vote for Aisleyne. I urge you all to do the same. If you need some reasons, here’s my latest post on the subject for TV Scoop.