“Sorry?” the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. The man simply stared at me, in a manner best described as mildly hostile.
Neither of you can remember the word for the—as you described it—‘ceramic pot with the pointy lid’
that ‘Judith’—whoever she is—had put on her wedding list, leading you”—
here, I indicated the woman with a gentle nod of my head—“to describe her as a ‘pretentious cow’.”
I was quite enjoying the occasional use of the waggling finger gesture now that I’d got the hang of it.
Neither of them spoke, so I felt emboldened to continue.
A tagine is a traditional cooking vessel of North African origin,” I said helpfully,
generally made from fired clay and decorated with a brightly colored glaze. It’s also the name of the stew that is cooked within it.
The man’s mouth had fallen open slightly, and the woman’s had slowly changed shape to form a very thin, very tight line.
She turned back to him and they began to whisper together, looking round more than once to steal a quick glance at me.
Nothing more was said, although they glared at me as they walked out, having paid for their goods. Not a word of thanks.
I gave them a little wave. Mr. Dewan smiled warmly at me when I finally reached the till.
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