I had picked up way more than one should at the small-ish corner shop; in all honesty I was too lazy to go to the supermarket. When I approached the till there was a long queue forming. It was a Friday afternoon, and a sunny one at that, two factors that bring shoppers flocking.
Teenagers buying ice cream on their way home from school, workers picking up beers and snacks for the park, other mums trying to shop for the weekend with kids in tow. And just as I got to the till, the second shop assistant announced it was 4pm and she was done for the weekend; hurrah!
As the line behind me continued to grow, I threw my heavy, overflowing basket onto the counter and saw the look of terror on the poor boy’s face. He was likely not yet 18, no doubt working his first job, in a uniform that he was positively drowning in. Despite his heart visibly sinking when he saw how much I was purchasing he smiled and, in a very well spoken accent that seemed out of place, welcomed me to the store.