In a charity shop on the high street of a small town, I take six pint glasses to the counter. 'Where's the price tag?' asks the shop assistant. He is young with shaggy hair and a light sprinkle of acne. His t-shirt bears the slogan; 'All my life I have dreamed of being a gangster'. There is a picture of a pink gun.
'They're £1.99', I say pointing at the label. 'That's good value', he says. I agree. He does not have any suitable bags so I suggest that I don't need one. 'You'll look cool carrying them down the street anyway', he says.
He seems glad to offer his middle names. 'I'm part Scottish, part English and a little bit Irish with about ten percent Swedish but that's been forgotten about', he explains.
I thank him, stack the glasses and leave looking cool.
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