My un-local shop

I’ve just been down to my un-local shop for the paper. Normally I go to my local shop, which is closer of course, but sometimes a change is as good as a rest. And sometimes not.

The advantage of going to the un-local shop is I get to see what the rest of the neighbours are up to. The disadvantage is the change.

The female half of the proprietorship is a grade A cent-pincher (that’s penny-pincher in old money). I mean it. If it weren’t for her husband the crows flying over the shop would be carrying packed lunches.

Today in my change I got a 2¢ coin instead of a 5¢. On the last visit I got four 10’s instead of five (and an apology for not being able to give me a 50¢ piece. Ah’ve no faftas, saurey). And then there’s the old reliables - the foreign coins. Croatian lipas, Kazakhstani tiyn, Zambian ngwee. Ok, I’m lying. It is usually East European or Sterling. But where does she get them? You’d never see Polish folks in there and the few Brits you do see are few and far between. I mean, does she send away for them? They can’t all come from customers because she scrutinises every last note and coin handed in. And how does she produce them every time? Does she have a separate compartment in the till labeled ‘dodgy junk’?

The big question is how do I get caught every time even though I watch like a hawk? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the constant blather or simple sleight of hand.

But I’ll catch her eventually. Great. Now I’ve something to live for.