Granny Scammed
I used to work in the local corner shop. I say “used to”, but actually it feels like another life-time. In that life-time I had pipe-cleaner arms (incapable of lugging about the heating oil out the back) and spikey hair like Sonic The Hedgehog. My appalling ability to add and subtract correctly is about the only thing that has stayed the same.
Confidence wasn’t something that came easy to me back then, and the queues that used to form – sometimes numbering as many as twenty hostile grannies in a line that snaked well out of the shop – didn’t exactly help. The number one thing I was terrified of wasn’t the grannies themselves (and it was always grannies, never old men), but what happened when the till broke down and I had to do all the adding up MYSELF.
When this happened, I became frozen with fear, and nothing my maths teacher had attempted to teach me would surface. Then, on top of that, you had the times when the grannies would say “how about I just give you the five pence, and you give me the six and the eight back?” Usually I wouldn’t be able to work out what the hell they were on about, and so I would just let them take the correct change out of my hand.
After a while I noticed that the till didn’t add up, and my manager was increasingly irritated for apparently good reason. That was when I knew it: I had been granny-scammed!
After that I always brought a calculator in. No way were them grannies messing with me another second!
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