with all rhyme and reason on his side, he should be able to buy it for 25 kronor.
Because that was half of 50. However, the assistant, a brain-dead phone-texting nineteen-year-old, would not go along with it.
She maintained that a single flower cost 39 kronor and “2 for 50” only applied if one bought two.
The manager had to be summoned. It took Ove fifteen minutes to make him see sense and agree that Ove was right.
Or, to be honest about it, the manager mumbled something that sounded a little like “bloody old sod” into his hand
and hammered 25 kronor so hard into the cash register that anyone would have thought it was the machine’s fault.
It made no difference to Ove. He knew these retailers were always trying to screw you out of money, and no one screwed Ove and got away with it.
Ove put his debit card on the counter. The manager allowed himself the slightest of smiles,
then nodded dismissively and pointed at a sign that read: “Card purchases of less than 50 kronor carry a surcharge of 3 kronor.”
Now Ove is standing in front of his wife with two plants.
Because it was a question of principle. “There was no way I was going to pay three kronor,” rails Ove, his eyes looking down into the gravel.
Ove’s wife often quarrels with Ove because he’s always arguing about everything.
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