LITMIR.BIZ

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my shift. I went and checked the rota, grinning like a fucking moron, and then went to the front of the shop: it was my turn to spend an hour tidying the rails and greeting people and helping customers and doing all the other shit that you’re supposed to do. They tell you that it is a very important job because you are the ‘first contact’ that a customer will have. I didn’t like it so much because it was a bit far away from what everyone else was doing, and I fucking hated talking to customers.

      A man walked in. As I worked in a shop that sold clothes for women, men walking in on their own were usually either:

      1 Looking for the wife/girlfriend/daughter/mate/mum/sister/mistress they had lost

      2 Looking to buy something for their wife/girlfriend/daughter/mate/mum/sister/mistress

      These were the men that we were supposed to attack with our knowledge of all things clothesy. We’d confuse them with words and they’d end up spending 200 quid in about five minutes because they were frightened and alone and vulnerable. A quick glance around revealed my manager at the tills, clocking the lonely man, so I thought I’d better do what I’d been trained to do.

      ‘Hello, are you okay there?’ I asked him.

      He looked at me, and then back at the clothes rail he had been touching, and then to the till, and then back at me.

      ‘Not … reaaaaally,’ he said. ‘I need to buy something for my … girlfriend.’

      ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What kind of thing do you have in mind?’

      He glanced around the shop, and whispered, ‘Maybe some underwear?’

      Not a problem. I knew all about the underwear. I was fucking great at underwear. I led him over to the back of the shop where the stands where all the bras and knickers (that I had tidied fucking beautifully earlier) stood.

      ‘If you’d like to have a look at these and think about what she might like. I’ll be just over here if you need any help.’

      ‘Could you help me now?’

      Fuck sake.

      ‘Of course! So, erm …’ I picked up what I would describe as a ‘pretty’ bra and pants set.

      ‘How about these?’

      ‘Do you like those?’

      ‘Well, they’re very pretty.’

      ‘I want something more … sexy.’ I put the pants down and picked up a lacier set.

      ‘These?’

      ‘No … more … sexy.’

      I put down the lacy pair and picked up the set that had come in a couple of weeks earlier and I had bought for myself. Proper slaggy bra and tiny little pants. Silky lacy slutty goodness. I fucking loved them.

      ‘These?’ I offered, holding them toward him.

      ‘Do you like those?’ He asked.

      ‘I love them.’ I replied.

      ‘Maybe those then,’ he said.

      ‘And the other set, the lacy ones.’

      ‘Do you know what size your girlfriend wears?’ I asked.

      ‘No,’ he said.

      ‘Oh. Well is she quite petite? Maybe have a look at the mannequins and tell me which she is most shaped like?’

      He looked at me. ‘Well, she’s your size, I’d say.’

      Righto. I picked up my size bra and my size pants from the stands and handed them to him. I told him that she could bring them back if she didn’t like them or if they didn’t fit, and that he should keep the receipt. He nodded.

      ‘I’ll just pass you onto my colleague now …’ I told him, taking his things over to the till. ‘Have a nice day.’

      And back I went to the front of the shop to tidy all the shit there.

      About an hour later the phone rang and I was called over.

      ‘It’s for you,’ said a colleague, thrusting the receiver at me whilst greeting her next customer.

      I put the phone up to my ear and said hello.

      ‘Oh, hi, ___. It’s erm ___, I was just in the shop, I bought two underwear sets. You see, the thing is I don’t actually have a girlfriend. I was outside the shop and I saw you working and I thought you looked really nice. So I came in and when you spoke to me I didn’t know what to do so made that up. But anyway, I got the phone number and your name off the receipt and I was wondering if you wanted to go for a drink when you finished?’

      He’s mental, he’s going to rape and murder you, was the first thing that went through my mind.

      ‘Where are you?’ I asked him.

      ‘Oh, I’m just outside the shop, on the bench.’

      I looked to my left. Just outside the door on some crescent shaped wooden benches, there he was. Looking at me. I looked away.

      ‘That’s very kind of you, ___,’ I said. ‘However I’m afraid I have a boyfriend and so it wouldn’t really be appropriate.’

      ‘Oh. Well, do you want the underwear? It’s your size, after all …’ He laughed.

      I pressed the panic buttons under the desk, hung up the phone and looked out of the door. He wasn’t there anymore.

      I spent the next week at work being monitored by plain clothed security people in the shopping centre. He came back once, they said, and was escorted away by the police. A lot of very strange people came in and out of that shop, but he was probably the one that fucked my head up the most, and guaranteed for the 18 months that I’d work there before leaving for uni, that I’d never go out on a lunch break and instead would stay safely inside the staff room reading Ben Elton.

       The Caucasian Chalk Circle

      When I was in sixth form a friend and I used to spend Thursday mornings in the city centre in our local Wetherspoons pub. What we’d do is go into school, register, and then get the bus into town to spend the first two free periods in the pub. At the pub we’d each get a massive fry up and a pint, and then sit quietly and read our books together over another pint.

      On this occasion we were both reading The Caucasian Chalk Circle for part of one of our English modules. The pub was loud and busy because it was right next door to the city centre college, and all of those college students had more or less the same brilliant Thursday morning plans as us.

      I wasn’t 18 yet, and so I was drinking illegally. So was my friend. This wasn’t a problem in this pub. It was back in the day before everything got really strict and you had to have fifteen forms of ID just to get into the pub, and then hand over said ID again at the bar along with something important and sentimental to you in order to get a sniff of a Bacardi Breezer.

      So we were there. In the pub. Reading a play and talking about what a fucking great guy Brecht was when I needed to go for a piss. Me and this girl were not the kinds to go to the toilet in pairs, so while she waited at our table I wandered up the stairs to the loo.

      The toilet had six cubicles. Let’s name them, from right to left, 1-6. 2, 3, 5 and 6 were taken, so I went into 4.

      I pulled down my pants and did a massive piss. I’m not sure how much description you need here, but I was a bit wobbly from the beer and I wanted to be in and out of there as quickly as possible. Wetherspoons toilets are not a great place to be. I wiped, pulled up my pants, flushed, unlocked the doors and went over to the sinks, which were facing the toilets. I turned on the tap and heard coming from one of the cubicles:

      ‘OH MY GOD HE’S GOT A MIRROR! OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OHMYGOD!’

      I turned

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