This story reminded me of why I used to drive fifteen miles past three other grocery stores to shop at my favorite one.

My son was five years old and not exactly the best at remembering anything. For example, he’d forget he was clutching one of his favorite toys, or he’d forget that we don’t live in the grocery store.

We were about to check out when he said:

Son: “I left Mr. Mouse on a shelf.”

Me: “Which shelf?”

He just shrugged. Terrific.

I asked at the customer service desk if anyone had turned in a palm-sized stuffed mouse with half of a plastic Easter Egg on its head. (What can I say? My child was creative.) No one had. I looked through the aisles where we’d gone, but the mouse never turned up.

As I was leaving, they asked me if I’d found it. They seemed genuinely concerned.

Well, they seemed genuinely concerned because they WERE genuinely concerned.

Whatever transpired next in the store must have involved an aisle-by-aisle search with walkie-talkies and storewide announcements, scouring the place from top to bottom, hunting for Mr. Mouse. By the time I got home, I had a message on my voicemail. Mr. Mouse was secured, orange helmet and all.

We put away the groceries and returned to the store. I made sure my son thanked everyone he could.

Related:
My Family, And Other Animals, Part 14

A customer walks up to me in the produce department. It is clear that English is not his first language.

Customer: “I look for broccoli, but like, if it was ghost.” 

Me: “Broccoli if it was a ghost?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Light bulb!

Me: “Do you mean… cauliflower?”

Customer: “Maybe? You show me?”

I bring him to the cauliflower. 

Customer: “Yes! Ghost broccoli! Thank you!”

A mother is checking out, and her little girl, maybe three years old, is toddling about touching everything she finds interesting.

Mom: “Don’t touch that display, [Girl]. You’ll knock it over and ruin it.”

The little girl waddles over to me instead and beams a huge smile up at me.

Little Toddler: “Mommy has a vagina!”

Me: “Uh…”

Little Toddler: “Mommy said I crawled out of it and ruined it!” 

Mom: *Sighing, to me* “That’s not the only thing she’s ruining.”

We are a small, independent store, and the owner is conscious of the environment. As a result, we have switched entirely to paper bags. They are good quality and can handle heavy groceries, and most importantly, we don’t charge any more for them than we did for the plastic bags.

Customer: “It’s so cool that you’ve done away with the plastic. I love shopping here for that.” 

Me: “Yes, it’s certainly better for the environment.” 

The customer behind my current customer in line sneers and scoffs.

Other Customer: “All that climate change bulls*** is just big corporations trying to make money by making you use paper bags that will dissolve.”

Me: “You’re welcome to bring in your own plastic bags to carry your groceries, sir.”

Other Customer: “I’m just saying, climate change isn’t real.” 

Customer: “Chill, dude.”

Other Customer: “What? There’s no real science to prove climate change, and these paper bags are expensive. Coincidence?” 

Customer: “I wasn’t looking for a debate. I was just saying I like the paper bags.”

Other Customer: “I’m just playing devil’s advocate!”

Customer: “It’s not devil’s advocate if you’re just a moron.” 

Mr. Climate Change Denier was blissfully silent (albeit glaring) for the rest of his time in the line.

CONTENT WARNING: Blood
 

After dialysis today, I go to our local grocery store to get something for my lunch and dinner.

Of course, it’s packed, and entitled behaviour is everywhere. An Audi R10 with no disabled badge parked across two disabled bays is just the start. There are kids running around screaming pushing into customers, etc.

Whatever. I limp round as fast as I can using the self-scan. I hate this thing, but I’m tired, hungry and hurting. I get my shopping, go to the self-service till, and scan to download my shopping. Of course, I get flagged for a basket check.

The poor girls on duty here are run off their feet, so I just wait while everyone queuing complains about how long it’s taking.

I suddenly get tapped on my shoulder, and I turn to see a pissed-off-looking woman around forty-five-ish.

Woman: “Move it! Your till has reset!”

Indeed, it has gone back to the start page due to the wait. She carries on grumbling at me to move. Then, she gets hold of my left arm and squeezes hard to try and force me to move. I yell in pain and a staff member runs over.

Staff Member: “Back up! He’s got to be basket-checked!”

The woman carries on whining, but then my screen is brought back up with my shopping on it.

I go to pay when she finishes, and blood trickles out my sleeve.

Me: “Oh, s***!”

Staff Member: “Go sit down on the bench there. I’ll call for a first aider.”

I’m already putting pressure on it as I know what’s happened. My left arm has a surgical fistula for dialysis. Basically, they join an artery and vein into one blood vessel. Bleeding from this can be potentially fatal if not dealt with.

I take my hoodie off with help while the woman continues to whine as security won’t let her leave.

The staff member sees my arm; it’s very swollen in sections from the treatment. When the woman squeezed, she ripped the scab open. Pressure stops it, but it takes time.

Then, I hear a familiar voice; my best friend has just come in to do some shopping.

Best Friend: “You okay, [My Name]?”

Me: “I need a dressing kit. There’s one in my car.”

He nodded, took my keys, and asked where I was parked. He returned a few minutes later with the pack, and with his and the staff member’s help, I stopped the bleeding fully and then cleaned and redressed the needle wounds.

By this time, cops had turned up, and yes, I agreed to press charges.

I felt like crap all afternoon because of her, and I used up some Kaltostat (a special dressing that causes blood clotting to stop bleeding rapidly). This stuff is expensive, like £60 for a box of ten dressings. Thank God I get that on prescription, but now I’ve used an extra day’s supply.

She will be charged by CPS, but it could be a month or so before trial at best, possibly longer.

The fistula kept oozing blood. Then, it bled heavily the following day — to the point where we called 999 and I was taken to hospital by ambulance.

The wound got infected, so I was put on IV antibiotics and an emergency neck line for dialysis. I had surgery to repair the fistula, but I ended up losing it; it was just too old, battered, and damaged to keep using regardless of the woman hurting it. The surgeon said she accelerated it by about six months.

All because someone was impatient.

My friend who was there for part of it phoned me to say he gave a statement today about what he saw (which was mostly me trying to stop the bleeding).

I’m in pain, scared, and just want to punch someone.