"Excuse me sir, I couldn't help but notice that you're somewhat more than comfortably overweight, are you sure you should be making a purchase of pastry based goods?"
I was quite taken aback by this. A till operator in my local supermarket chain telling me off for my lifestyle and advising me on purchases! Jeeze! Some people have mas huevos.
"Ahhh, no I'm happy enough thanks" - I reply, guiltily sliding an apple turnover into my rucksack.
"Hey you!", shouts a proprietor of gentlemans apparel perpendicular to my exit, "Yeah YOU!", pointing towards me. "Those clothes you're wearing are SHIT. Seriously, how the fuck do you expect to get laid wearing THAT!? Come on, look at this! Fuckin' smart huh?"
The suit, shirt and tie he's pointing at in the shop window are quite admirable and I can see how my normally disheveled appearance would be addressed by such a purchase. But still… that's quite an aggressive delivery for a salesperson. Besides I've never had much truck with that "clothes maketh the man" line.
"Eh? Ah… no… no, I'm not really looking to buy a suit". I move along, the suit seller already yelling toward another shopper who seems to have irked him with their lack of dress sense.
The uncommonly cold (for this time of year) air hits my lungs and makes my teeth grit as I skip through the opening from the shopping centre to the towns main street. Looking up from my rucksack, having retrieved my wooly bunnet, I find a strangely lecherous young man standing in front of me. It seems he's a florist, his left hand clutches a bunch of decrepit looking flowers, his right is, well… 'occupied' at the front of his trousers.
"My sister's just turned sixteen" he says, "loves these flowers so she does, buy them and who knows what luck you might have!" I ponder over the daffodils he's clutching, and notice the sickly way light is glinting off the stems, realising they're made of plastic, further flaws become apparent, wire pokes though the faux stems, the edges of the cloth petals are frayed and close to being completely unraveled.
I express disinterest to empty space as he's moved on to another potential buyer for his 'flowers'.
"Your job is pointless!", shouts a woman from a recruitment agency window. "You make very little money and have no prospects!", "Selfish BASTARD!" - this particular retort emanates from one of the many charity shops I amble past, "HEY BALDY!" beckons a barber I've not visited in five years. "Kind cxc ind anal ymn inv" comes the muffled call from the owner of a corner shop, confused, I look at the magazine he's pressing against the window depicting a naked woman with what looks like a… is that a GOAT?
Have you ever wondered, as I do, what it would be like if the retailers of the worlds streets adopted the same strategies of those who attempt to sell to you from your inbox?