When Tuesday met Daisy...

“General manager to homeware.” My radio crackles. I drop my sandwich back onto the plate with a groan and wipe my hands. Honestly, it’s every time I sit down and look at food. That is why I never buy a hot meal. There’s no point. It must be an irate customer, otherwise they wouldn’t bother me during my lunch. Sometimes the customer will only calm down when they speak to the big boss. Even if I repeat, word for word, what has already been said.

“On way,” I answer. The words grind from between my teeth. I only use the fancy radio talk for when I’m talking to the shopping centre security. I get up from the table with a stretch and fold up my lunch, pop it back in the fridge, and with a last gulp of tea, I go and confront the problem.

The store is so busy I must weave around customers. Luckily, nobody asks me for any help. My stomping form and the look of thunder on my face probably puts them off. I try not to let my inside smirk show on my face.

“Peter, open changing rooms four and five, and get another couple of bodies on the tills, please,” I say as I pass. Peter’s eyes widen, and he nods. “Thank you.”

Halfway to homeware, I hear an irate, whiny voice over and above the general store hum.

Oh, here we go... 

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