So I've got the bread, the bacon, the eggs, some fromage de chèvre and the inevitable salmon portions. They always come in twos so I shall have to have it two days running or put one in the freezer. I favour two days running otherwise the freezer fills up, as I forget to defrost stuff. Basket full enough, I set off for the check-out.
There is an old boy in front of me, actually he's about my age, but this queue has been chosen, as always, for conversation potential. I have chatted to this particular check out lady several times before, she brightens my day, and I freely admit that I go to the supermarket nearly every day and mostly for conversation, maybe even a little light flirting. Well where's the harm?
The check out lady could most graciously be described as mature, but then so am I: very mature. She has an open face framed with obviously newly styled hair, a light grey colour, curved in just below her ears. I cannot assess her figure but she is well presented, someone who obviously takes a pride in her appearance. I, however, am not! I'm, lets face it, a bit scruffy, old shoes, nondescript trousers, ordinary shirt and my uniform fleece: no Adonis!
The "old boy" in front makes a strange remark about the place being full of oldies, pays and departs. She rolls her eyes at me which opens the conversation. We talk about rubbish while she scans my items and I can't resist it, my mouth says. "Really great hair do."
"Well thank you, kind sir."
"No, I mean it, it really suits you."
"It's not best presented in a supermarket overall."
There is no one behind me so I revel in the moment, lean forwards and say,
"I'd very much like to see it better presented."
"I do believe you are flirting with me, kind sir.." As she adjusted her hair.
Even I can read this sign, two 'kind sirs' in two minutes and the old hair preening gesture.
"I certainly am, and I'd consider it a honour to take you for a pub supper."
Shit, my mouth always works faster than my brain. I'd just let it run away. What if I get rejected: simple, choose a different check out for a while.
"Actually, I am available on Friday."
Did she really say available rather than free? Am I reading too much into this?
"How about the Bell at seven thirty?" My heart stops for the reply.
"The Bell, 7:30 on Friday it is. I'm Jenny by the way."
"And I'm David. So see you Friday Jenny and don't change the hair!" I leave with a smile which is reciprocated.
What have I done? I'm bloody sixty seven year old. I've just hit on a pretty girl (any female younger than me is a girl, it's just an expression, she is probably only a few years younger than I am) and she's accepted: wow. The week drags, I cannot even bring myself to flirt with other check-out ladies. I am behaving like a teenager. It's only a pub supper. Yes but it's a date: a date!
Eventually Friday arrives, the morning drags, the afternoon drags. For goodness sake, we'll probably just have an agreeable meal, the Bell is always reliable, run out of conversation and part in an embarrassed silence.
"David?"
I turn towards the voice. She looks stunning. I recognise the face and the hair do but the rest is a surprise. She is average height, not overweight but 'generous' in the hip department, wearing a loose flowing dress and a little bolero style jacket. She looks marvellous.
