I’m going to get myself killed

Seriously. One of these days I’m going to get myself killed to death by stabbing or repeated kicks to the head. Why? Because every now and again my brain loses control of my mouth.

Earlier today I was in the Co-op and a teenaged boy behind me in the till queue decided to drop his crisp packet to the floor with an insolent flourish. OK, fine. He’s a twat, but fine. When he dropped something else I rolled my eyes and carried on paying, but when he then tried to kick said rubbish underneath the till (like, dude, if you’re ashamed to have it at your feet, don’t drop it) my mouth opened and bollocks spewed forth.

I smiled at him. "It’s still down there, even if you try to kick it away."

He stared at me, the dumb-ass white woman, in perfectly justified disbelief. "What do you care?" he grunted.

I shrugged, attempting nonchalance as my brain realised what I was doing, along with the acceptance that I’m not bright enough to do the sensible thing and back off. "I’m just saying, it’s still going to be down there." (Yeah, nice comeback. That told him.)

So he kicked the counter.

"Oh, now," I said. "That’ll just break your foot." (What the FUCK?! Is the court case against this kid for beating the shit out of me going to collapse because I patronised him so much it was the only decent thing left for him to do?)

He stared at me again, slightly agape, for longer this time. "So what if I break my foot?"

"Ah, I broke mine last year. It’ll really hurt, so maybe don’t do that again."

I swear, if that kid had had a knife on him he would have stabbed me then and there by the greetings cards. Thankfully, at this point I’d finishing paying for my Guardian and two tins of baked beans and could leave.



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