Tuesday, January 22, 2019 19:00

I Took Them

I took them. I know I did, they think I did. And it annoys me to think I’d got almost to the corner of the street before they caught up with me.

I have coveted them ever since I first tried them on and have tried to save up my money so I could buy them. But I’ve never been a saver; I can’t help it. Does that mean I can’t have them?
The bitch that stopped me was oh so holier than thou: like she had never taken anything in her life before. Can you believe that?

‘Excuse me Miss,’ she said, like she had a plum in her mouth. ‘Would you mind accompanying me back to the store? ‘Would I mind?’ I demanded. ‘Of course I minded.’ It made no difference, I had to go back.

They took me through a door marked ‘Staff Only’ and made me sit in a horrible room with a plastic topped table and a single plastic chair. The woman standing guard at the door kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye like I was on suicide watch or something. Bloody stupid woman. The police arrived – a man and a woman – after what seemed like a lifetime of waiting and asked me some really stupid questions.

‘What’s your name?’

You see what I mean about stupid questions, can’t you? They must ask me that question at least once a month!

‘What is your address, Miss?’

‘Same as last time,’ I reply, stifling a yawn.

It went on for so long that my feet started to hurt in my new Jimmy Choo’s.  The heels were killing me. But I loved the gorgeous feel of them. I knew the male copper was turned on by them – he couldn’t take his eyes off me. It made me feel sexy.

Finally the policewoman said I had to accompany her and the shop manageress to the lady’s fitting room. I was amazed they were going through with this ridiculous pantomime. I told them I was innocent of the charge. But would they listen? Would they hell! I stood there in my knickers – clean on this morning – while the policewoman and the manager inspected my trousers. They picked at them: inspected the waist band and the crutch and the stitching. It was obvious from the state of them that they hadn’t just come off the shelf. It wasn’t my fault they had got things wrong. If they had been more observant, asked the right questions, I’d have had no defence.

They conferred in hushed tones, and then handed me my trousers in that huffy manner you associate with someone you’ve just soundly beaten at a game of Monopoly or Cluedo. They said I was free to go.

On the way out of the store I couldn’t stop myself from walking out past the shoe department. I glanced down at an old pair of shoes that looked just like the ones I had come in with. My new ones had suddenly stopped hurting.

 

Copyright © J E Emberson 2007