I kept the outfit on, pulled off the tags and placed them on the floor, then folded up my work clothes and put them into my shopper.
I picked up the tags for the woman to process on her cash register. She was hovering outside when I emerged.
“What do you think?” she said. “Looks good, doesn’t it?” “I’ll take them,” I said, handing her the bar codes.
I had forgotten about the security devices clipped onto the clothes, however, and we had quite a struggle to remove them.
I had to come behind the desk, in the end, and kneel backward beside her so she could detach them using the magnetic machine fixed to the counter.
We ended up laughing about it, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in a shop before.
After I’d paid, trying not to think about how much money I’d spent, she came out from behind the desk again.
D’you mind if I say something? It’s just... shoes.I looked down.
I was wearing my work shoes, the flat, black, comfortable pair with the Velcro fastenings.
“What’s your name?” she said. I was bemused. Why was my name relevant to a footwear purchase?
She was waiting, expecting an answer. “It’s Eleanor,” I admitted with great reluctance, having considered giving a false name or nom de plume.
I certainly wasn’t going to tell her my surname. “The thing is, Eleanor, you need an ankle boot with skinny jeans, really,” she said,
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