Yesterday, during the lunch hour, I nearly lost the plot in some quaint suburban Chain Store. After all the years of salary and pocket money I have ploughed into that retailer, some sales woman and a manager had the cheek to tell me I was one month too late to return “Sale” shoes.
Ohforfucksakes. Can’t you just make a plan. An exception. I practically own the land rights to a few aisles after all the years of loyalty! Your head staff sent flowers to my grandmother’s funeral, that’s how devout this family has been to your shops.
The manager barely stated a “No” before moving on to a till that had paying customers.
The queue of grannies and school moms stood in hopefully anticipation for some thrill from the mundane. COME ON!!!! GIVE US A FIGHT!! I could just feel them lean in on the anger spewing across my counter. A chant of FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT! seemed to have started up in their collective subconscious behind me.
I did that heavy breathe in and considered finally picking my “labour abuse” fight with this store. Recently having found out that dears might be hiring staff as temp workers, but working them like full timers. This means they do not have to live up to employment terms of Double Pay on Weekends and Public Holidays and After Hours. AND they pay the employees fairly shocking salaries to start off with anyway.
But I have one fight too many at the moment to momentum enough swing into this silly situation. R200 gold shoes I had needed for a wedding. It wasn’t worth the growling and glaring and rationalising life out with these just-doing-their-job fools.
So I walked away.
This morning I asked my maid’s cousin if she would like these shoes, as she also has size 5 feet.
She was so overjoyed, she literally had tears in her eyes and held onto the kitchen counter for a few seconds to steady herself. The shoes immediately went on and she teetered about in so much excitement I really worried she would faint.
That moment was worth the cash.