The angry man

My local supermarket is open until midnight. At about 11, two guys start to close down the deli section. It’s obviously a big job: they have to put away all that neatly folded ham, coleslaw, fish fillets and mystery meat.

I like to shop late when the place is pretty much empty. I shop fast and don't need obstacles like people hunting though the 50 different mouthwashes to get in my way. It’s just around the corner and I enjoy a little late-night retail therapy.

Last night there was a man standing at the deli counter. He was 50-something, about five feet tall, wearing shorts, a singlet and thongs. He was the very image of a short, fat Aussie man. He was barking at the deli guy.

“The sign says midnight. If you’re going to close sections down, you need to say it on a sign out the front.”

The deli guy was barely following where he was going, but I could see it coming a mile away.

“You know, legally I could sue you for false advertising.”

He screwed up his face, turned to the short, fat woman he was with and barked, “Come on. We’re going.” He marched out, hamless and muttering, past the checkouts, while she trundled along behind him.

As if he hadn’t made his point at the deli, he stood at the door and shouted, “Bloody hell, woman. Hurry up. We’re never coming back here.” He took a few steps outside and, as the automatic doors were closing, managed to bark out his parting shot: “Ever!”