Those crazy athletic feet of mine and the scrapes they get me into...

Long, long ago, right here at Glen’s Life, I discussed the phenomenon of how you only ever get served by pretty women at supermarket checkouts when buying something embarrassing.

It’s true, you know.

It’s happened again.

Last time, I was buying Athlete’s foot treatment and this time…?

Same thing – it’s back, but I’ve taken the embarrassment factor to a whole new level.

I’m not really sure how I get myself into these messes.

I just do.

My sporty little feet have awoken from their slumber and the itch is back. I’m scrunching up my toes as I write so forgive me if I ramble or hit the wrong keys because my feet are on fire. You’d have trouble spelling excruciating if you were in my shoes, I can assure you

Little old grannies or spotty blokes can’t be serving whenever you try and buy something revolting. It just isn’t allowed. Why do they always place the babes on the counters closest to the most shameful aisles?

So, to get to the point…

I was in Boots.

I’d finally crumbled and decided that the comforting feeling you get from scratching a friendly foot itch had passed and had turned into a constant craving. I’m pretty sure KD Lang intended her song to be about scratching sweaty, flaky skinned toes when she wrote it. She must have. I can no longer do anything without trying to secretly give them a little rub.

Anything.

I think you know what I’m saying.

So, to get back to the point…

I was in Boots.

Cleverly, I had my earphones in. Music in your ears means that no one can see you; everyone knows that. Paloma Faith’s soothing voice kept the nervous sweat from making too obvious a patch on my back as I studied the array of lotions and potions. Too many creams demanding your attention, all of which have completely different ingredients but each one insisting that theirs is the one that works.

I was getting confused.

I was beginning to panic. If I couldn’t decide soon I’d wind up having to ask someone. ASK SOMEONE!! Hell no.

Finally, I made a decision and immediately spotted the Boots own brand version sat next to it. The ingredients were identical. Absolutely identical. The sticker said it was considerably cheaper than the £4.99 branded version. Result.

I skipped to the self-payment checkout smugged up to the brim because I wasn’t going to have to face up to the rule of the embarrassing-purchase-pretty-checkout-woman. Self-payment! The clue is in the title.

Press Start.

Blip

Do you have an Advantage Card?

Blip.

Scan your item(s).

Swish.

Blip.

£5.99.

Eh?

Why is it £5.99? That’s way too much – I might as well get the branded version, surely?

Slowly, and with a fog of doom forming over my head, I walked back to the minging-foot-shelf.

The sticker said £3.75 but for 35mg of exactly the same thing as the 15mg tube I was holding. Now, I was confused. Less cream for more money? Hindsight is currently jumping up and down beside me shouting 

“Told you!” It’s right, because my next move was entirely the wrong one.

Quite why I thought that if I took exactly the same tube to the pharmacy counter and had someone manually scan it, the price would miraculously be right, I will never know. None the less, I got in the queue.

Two people were serving; a balding man and a very pretty blond. The blond girl had what looked like a tricky prescription to sort out and the bloke had a simple and quick counter job. I smiled confidently. Clearly the man would be ready to serve me first .Confidence can be bastard sometimes.

“Next please” She purred, in a sexy polish accent. I’m almost certain her eyelashes fluttered. Perhaps she mistook me for the Diet Coke Man – this happens surprisingly often. I imagine that she is expecting me to put some Deep Heat on the counter, to soothe my aching muscles after my latest workout, or perhaps some hair gel (I haven’t needed hair gel since I was 20) to ruffle up and style my shiny hair. What I had in my hand would very quickly put a stop to her outrageously overt flirting.

“Oh” she silently mouthed, quietly putting her knickers back on.

Swish, blip.

“£5.99 please”

Oh damn.

I questioned the price and she jumped into action. “Follow me?” she suggested, suggestively. She walked seductively with me back to the 'un-clean' shelf waving my tube aloft.

“Oh” she said. “Ah”, she followed. Her sexy frown held firm as she desperately tried to make sense of the pricing enigma before her. I’m fairly sure I noted some of the sexual chemistry returning, women love a man who can shop and I’d clearly chosen well from such a huge selection. It seems that she couldn’t quite get over my skanky feet though, so she decided to pass me onto someone who she thought might not care.

Before I could object, she hollered across the store and called over an absolutely stunning Asian girl. “Come and check this man out, his feet are a bit mouldy but he knows how to find a bargain” the Polish girl probably said, in their pre-agreed code that looked, to the layman, like she was holding a box of athlete’s foot cream and pointing at incorrect shelf labelling.

The gorgeous new lady studied me carefully. I assumed she was looking to see if I had a wedding ring on.

Then she looked properly at the particular box being shown to her.

“Oh” she silently mouthed, quietly putting her knickers back on.

After much loud discussion and after ensuring that anyone within a square kilometre knew exactly what it was I was trying to buy, the sexy twosome agreed that I could either pay the £3.75 displayed on the incorrectly placed sticker or I could pay full price but then meet them both later for a threesome.

Result!

£3.75 for Athlete’s foot cream? Nobody could turn down an offer that good!!