Underpants: My Struggle

It may be out of fashion these days, but I think discretion is one of the finer human virtues, and I have to admit that I'm disappointed to be trapped in an income bracket that prevents me from enjoying the benefits of the level of salesmanship available to higher economic groups.

I am aware that the gentleman of the upper crust who shop in such thoroughfares as Jermyn Street, or amongst the merchants of Mayfair, are afforded the utmost of dignity in their transactions. I understand that the service available there is always polite, ever obliging, yet never intrusive, or dare I say it: over-familiar.

No. Due to my relative penury, I am forced to shop amongst the hoi-polloi.

For example: some time back, in a chemists near London's King's Cross, I steeled myself to procure some condoms. Yes, dear reader: Condoms. I followed the age-old protocol familiar to all men in this situation, and stepped forward to the counter, pointed to the "items" I wished to procure and curtly proffered a ten pounds note towards the lady attendant as remuneration.

The moment could not pass quick enough as she took her time noisily shoving my purchase into an unnecessarily rustly bag. Then, as though she wanted to drag the process out a little further, she paused, looked up, and asked in an East End accent broader that the Mile End Road:

"Do you want a receipt with that?" (Or "jew wan' a resee' wiv 'at?")

Naturally, I coughed, and through a dry throat uttered a curt "no!"

She appeared to expect this reply and added:

"Nah, it's not as though you're gonna bring' em back, eh!"

I shudder at the very recollection.

Anyway, to my point.

This very afternoon, whilst underpant-shopping in Marks & Spencers (and can I add that, apart from the occasional luxury ready meal, underpants & socks are ALL I buy at M&S), I queued up to pay for my "garments", and finally made it to the till.

The young man behind the counter was initially polite, and appeared efficient as he scanned the bar code and stated the price in clear tones. (£7.50 for ten: not bad). But then, and to my utter ASTONISHMENT, he then OPENED THE PACKET AND TOOK A PAIR OUT! Brazenly! With his own hands! I could only look on in dismay as he casually admitted that he was just "checking to see if they're the size on the packet!"

Like that was anybody's business: my pants. He was handling MY UNDERPANTS for God's sake!. In front of EVERYBODY. I mean, I ASK YOU.

A Statement:

Look, Mr. "Marks & Spencers" whatever your name is, leave my pants alone! I'm pleased you care about actual pant-sizes matching the packaging, but kindly not whilst I am undergoing the indignity that underpant-shopping represents. What if I'd gone for the old-man's pants this time? (And let's face it, the day will come). Do I want everyone in the queue behind me to know? Will you hold them aloft and announce to the assembled throng "Blimey! He's gone for the old man's pants, and they're the wrong size!".

No, I don't like this development at all. Basically, I just want to pay for the pants and leave. If they're the wrong size, I'll just throw them away, and then visit ANOTHER branch to buy more, and to keep doing so until I get the right size. That's the way it is with underpant-shopping.

I've probably said enough, but I just think that this is some kind of training issue. I really do.