I was in Waitrose, buying, as is my habit, a bottle of wine. I was at the self-checkout machines. Don’t judge me. If you use these machines and buy alcohol, a person has to come over and confirm you are old enough. I have to admit that it is rare that I go into the supermarket and do not buy alcohol. (When I don’t buy alcohol, my shop is so cheap.) There is always a mildly anxious gap in time between when the red booze light starts flashing and when the assistant comes over to validate your age. Sometimes I think that the staff at Waitrose are playing a little game with me, seeing how long they can keep me waiting, reasoning I should learn that true pleasure lies in its deferral, in the anticipation. I am rarely in a hurry on these occasions, and use the time to contemplate the strange beauty of the world, or to pull faces into the camera above the checkout.
This time I caught the eye of a tall, young woman waiting around to do her bit for the thirsty writer. She looked like a younger version of my friend A—, who believes in astrology and tells me off for drinking ethanol (I am very fond of her). The young woman came over and said, quite deadpan: “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you: are you over 25?”
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