The woman in the no-plastic shop does not like me

"Hello!"

My voice echoes sadly around what appears to be an empty shop. Empty of people, that is. The shelves themselves are a glorious riot of lentils, beans, chickpeas, flours and teas. As I haul myself and my rucksack fully in, sniffing appreciatively at the smell of sourdough bread - great boulders of which sit firmly on the counter: they smell better than they taste - the top half of a grey head of curly hair appears reluctantly by the side of them. I can just make out a pair of inexpressive eyes hovering just above the counter line.

"Oh. Hullo."

The voice is, impressively, even more reluctant than the head. I try for a smile and the empty jars and containers in my rucksack shift and clink nervously on my shoulder. Blink and I would miss the sly grin that flits over the face, now fully in view and not particularly ethusiastic about my presence. Someone is about to be made uncomfortable, and it won't be the shop owner.

"I'd like some of your crunchy peanut butter in here please." I place the glass jar gently down on the counter where it sits like a challenge.

"Smooth, medium or chunky?"

"Medium please." The decision puts me squarely, uncomfortably on the fence. I am neither one nor the other. I am the medium middle. The mean. The average. The request is given due consideration and I shift again before the nut butter oracle speaks.

 "I'll do it in a minute. I'm right in the middle of doing this bit of inventory. You're buying other things?"

This should not be mistaken for a question. I will be buying other things whether I came in for them or not. Given that I have been rude enough to see the 'OPEN' sign and the door left ajar as reason to walk in and interrupt her quiet inventory time, the very least I could do would be to damn well buy enough to make it worth her while. There is a sting of a retort blistering my tongue but it dies before it can see the light of day. My peanut butter future depends on obedience, and my answer tells her that I know she knows that too.

"Yes, yes I am. So sorry to disturb you. I can come back another..."

Neither my ingratiating smile nor my sickeningly crawly tone of voice (which appears to have gone up an octave) cut any ice. The head is not for softening.

"No. May as well do it now. My flow is disturbed."

Nothing for it but to creep sadly, cringingly, away, taking my shame to the back of the shop where I begin filling up on hand soap, bicarb of soda, laundry liquid, washing up liquid. Somewhat ostentatiously, I click each container down on the scales, weigh them, write the results carefully on their sides. See? See how I am a good customer?

Despite my best efforts to be quiet, the whole shop has turned against me now: the tubs and pumps groan in protest at my handling, spitting contents over the top of my bottles, dribbling spitefully over the floor. There is a sigh from behind the counter. I mop up the spills. See? See how I am a clean customer. I risk a glance in the direction of the peanut butter machine where precisely no peanuts are being ground.

Now I'm in the food section: dried fruit, chickpeas (even though these ones will still be like bullets after 24 hours of soaking), tea, rice. Pearl barley. I'm done: time to take my courage in both hands, screw it to the sticking place, brave the lion in their den etc. I take a deep breath and carry my basket over to the counter.

"What does that say?" My handwriting is being scrutinised, each container lifted to the sky, turned and turned again. The glasses go on, the head tilts back, the eyes scrunch and peer.

"Umm. 15g. The bottle was 15g on the scales before I filled it."

"Is it? Looks like 19 to me. Possibly 16? Or 1.5. Are you sure its 15g?"

My yes is a squeak. I try for an ingratiating smile that gets me precisely nowhere, nohow. "My handwriting is a little..." the words trail away with a sad laugh that dies as the oxygen of indifference hits it.

"Did you want to try some of our handcream?" this is a challenge that has been flung down and badly met in the past. I must respond or risk finding bottles of the damn lavender-spunked stuff in my bag.

"No, thank you. Thank you. No. I find it irritates my skin." I'm pinned under the severe, doubtful look like a bug in a Victorian scientist's collection. I try not to squirm.

"Does it? You should try going gluten-free."

"I am. I do, I mean..." why have I said that? Decades of a complicated relationship with food and I am no longer anything free but there's no way out of this conversation. No way of clawing the words back.

"Gluten free?" the next bag is held up, inspected. "Pearl barley contains gluten." the challenge is in the air and in the split second I have to think about this, I pick the wrong lie.

"Yes, but I find that, with all that cooking and soaking, and and cooking and..." my voice tails off, withers in the face of the burning furnace that is her scorn.

"Do you? Well. That's very...interesting. And that's £39.62. Unless you want some sourdough. It was freshly made today."

This is a lie, we both know it, and as surely as we both know that I will say yes and then spend the next few days risking my own limbs hacking off slabs of it. Hollowed out, it would make an adequate substitution for an igloo. Left whole, it could down fighter jets.

"Yes please! So delicious!"

The bread lands with a solid thunk in the bottom of my bag, causing the counter to tremble.

"That'll be £46.62 then."

I wince at the price, wince at the weight of the bag on my back, see her see me wince and attempt a final laugh that is as manic as my goodbye. I have covered myself in something other than glory with this visit.

"Great. Lovely! Thank you so much! Goodbye...goodbye now...thank you. Byeee!"

The door closes behind me with a tinkle that is in no way merry and I'm halfway home before I remember.

I still have no fucking peanut butter.