under the blanket

There I was, cold and miserable from the drizzle, conned once again by the weather forecast, and trudging through the bleak suburban mall that is 10 times worse than Tiong Bahru Plaza.

Knocking fresh bruises onto my shins while lugging my overloaded shopping basket to checkout, I was greeted by an unexpectedly cheery "Hello! How are you?" instead of the usual sullen silence.

Caught by surprise, I managed a weak smile at the black teenager who was, most astoundingly, packing my shopping for me, which, I assure you, has never happened before. Usually, they just let my jars and cans roll and crash while I retardly try to get those darned plastic bags to unstick by rubbing them between my too-smooth palms.

I didn't know what to do with my hands while she thoughtfully packed the meat separately from the fruit -- I don't even do that when I bag my own groceries, I just shove everything in a blind panic into the first plastic bag I manage to open -- and she even carefully wrapped up the spring onions, which were marked down to 49p, because they were so limp. And all the time, she was chatting about how my day went, how her day had been, have a good weekend, and wearing a big huge Darlie smile.

I left Sainsbury's with a big huge Darlie smile too.