text: I’m on tills, it’s about five hours into my shift. Feeling a little tired. I’m in automatic mode; I serve customers with my almost monotone *thank you*, *who’s next*, *cheers bud*. Words just come out of my mouth. Sometimes I say *hi* when they are leaving, or *cheers* when they come to my counter. I’ve clocked myself doing this. I know it’s bad but I don’t want to berate myself -- after all, I’m serving about two customers a minute. It doesn’t sound like much, but it is. I’ve decided I want to change things up. I will become conscious. I will take the wheel. I will fly my plane. ‘Hello’ I say with an award-winning smile. ‘ello!’ the small old lady says to me. She seems happy. Let’s add a personal touch to this interaction. Let's see... she’s buying alcohol -- perfect! I’ve got just the ticket. ‘excuse me mam,’ *god* I am a charmer, ‘can I see some aye-dee for this?’. I’m already smiling. ‘what was that son?’ Bless. She’s too old to hear me properly*.* I suppose we all get old someday. Wrinkled faces and hairs coming out of our ears... out of her cheeks and chin and christ those are some gross eyebrows. No -- stop. I’m being nice. ‘I said,’ *there’s that smile again*, ‘can I see some AYE-DEE?’ A frown. That’s not good. Is she a grumpy old person? Was that enthusiastic *ello* just a ruse? A subterfuge to subvert my expectations? I wonder if she looks down on me. Perhaps she was just in automatic mode too? **‘Ish there a problem here?’** says some burly bald-headed man that appeared from somewhere behind her. ‘No, ha ha, I was just asking her for some aye-dee, you know, for the wine’. I keep my smile up with effort. **‘Are youh tryin to confuse this frail ald woman? oan purpose?**’ He looks angry. Why must people moralise on behalf of others; can this lady not fight her own battles? I mean, probably not. But still. ‘No, no! Ha ha’ *yikes* ‘I was trying to make a joke, to make her laugh! I’m obviously not as funny as I thought I was, ha ha’. **‘WHO the FUCK dae ya HINK yeh ARE?**’ says another, almost comically similar rough big bald-headed man who also seemingly appeared from my periphery. These two men, standing either side of her, look like they could pick her up and lob her over the counter at me -- if she didn’t break in their hands. How did they even hear the conversation? None of my colleagues seem to have; they’re still serving customers. Same as I should be. ‘Look. Fellas.’ *Oooh, where did this confidence come from?* ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding here. I’m not trying to confuse this lady-’ *you whelks* ‘I was just trying to brighten her day with a little joke. I mean, she’s obviously too old to be aye-dee’d for alcohol. She looks waayhaay over twenty-five!’ I’m sure these gentlemen can find the good humour in this situation. **‘HOUUUH**’ a gasp. A loud one Oh n- **‘HOU VERY DARE YOUH. YOUH ANIMAL**’ spittle on my face ‘**IF I CO-**’ ‘Killlll the motherr fuckkaa!!!!’ shrieks the old lady with a shrill, almost regal intonation; her head is thrown back and a finger points towards my face. Within seconds these burly men are on the counter, scrambling at me with their grubby sausage fingers. My colleagues, the bastards, continue to serve normally. These men have passed the threshold and are chasing me behind the self-scans in full view of the customers. The old lady cracks a smile. The burly men beat me to a pulp, first cracking my ribs then squishing my face like a beaten tomato. My body is so badly broken and rigid that I look like a chip that’s been left in the oven too long. The blood covering me looks like tomato sauce. It pools on the floor and my manager tells me to clean it up. Such is life when you are nice to customers.