Queuing is a social construct and something we all idly conform to. Despite this I have seen in my life a number of the chosen few who must rebel against the system, with today being just one example. The Post Office line was quiet and orderly until the man decided to push me aside and join in front. The middle-aged woman, elderly gentleman and teenage lad in front all paid no mind to the situation.
And so, when I asked the offender, a six-foot-something, mountain of muscle, probably a bouncer to join behind me I was quickly met with “Fuck off, I’m in a ‘urry. You goin’ to make me go to the back?” It seemed best not to argue with Steve McFadden’s twin and submit in the name of the early afternoon peace.
The queue edged forward, with the youth appearing to be somewhat confused by why he had to pay the remaining delivery fee on the package sent to him, despite multiple attempts to communicate the message. The man and woman followed suit with one of the staff closing their position, leaving Phil Mitchell to be served by the remaining lone woman behind cashier number three. Another elderly gentleman joined behind me before swiftly leaving again, mumbling something about the price of stamps.
It was then that Mr Mitchell finished and I began towards the desk.
“I’m sorry sir, we’re closing now.” I looked at the clock. Half twelve. I sighed, almost feeling repent and solemnly blanking the woman’s kind request if I could come back on Monday.
The rest of the day was uneventful. Greggs were out of Steak Bakes and so I instead bought a chicken one. The evening television was terrible. Off to bed shortly. Probably going to listen to some music before though.