'It's your phone,' he says. I can't quite see him as I am busy slapping my Samsung against the antiquated machine that Aldi offers for cashless payments. However, I can feel his presence expanding like the builders foam on special in the middle aisle.

'Its not my phone', I say, giving best shot at not being passive aggressive. I manage a half smile, the side of my lip twitching upwards as reluctant as a woman forced to do the shopping on a beautiful sunny day. Oh yes, that's me. I am my annoyed, twitching lips.

Image by me and Midjourney

'It's your phone' he insists, assuming that older man authority as if the poor love - me - doesn't know any better.

'It's not my phone'.

This could go on for some time. I'm sucking some peverse pleasure out of the inane back and forth. I'm calm as a crumpet but my internal dialogue is holding a cast iron frying pan and desperately wants to donk him on his bald patch.

'It's not my phone, it's your old machines' I say. 'It works at 95 percent of places, except for this Aldi, and I just used it at the petrol station five minutes ago'.

'Whatever' he says. Actually, that's not what he says, but his body language is that of a teen refusing to be told. He believes, in his frozen pea shaped brain, that it is the phone, and there's no way he will relinquish his belief. I know this, so I'm very reluctant to engage with him further.

'It's not her phone' says the cashier one over. I smile at him gratefully. 'It's a combination of Google Pay and our machines. I'll have a go if you like'. By now, I've turned into that awful person holding up the line. I move over and continue to tap my phone at the machine idiotically. The new guy is younger, and apologetic. 'Sorry,' he says 'it's our machines. It often happens.'

The old guy can't let it go, turning away from his own aisle where a young woman places her dark chocolate and hemp seeds down. He is a very tall and imposing man when he stands and speaks, and his voice is loud and terse.

'Have you got a back up card?' he says.

'No, why would I bring a back up card? I have Google Pay?' I say. Seriously. It's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Sure, I could possibly have one in my glove box, but I'm not going to have one in my phone wallet when the tech is there on this mini computer I carry around.

'That's the point of a back up card' he says. 'It's a back up in case your phone doesn't work.'.

By now, my imagination has a bigger frying pan and a whole set of stainless steel knives that have been marked down because the packaging has been damaged. In my mind's eye, he is cowering below me, apologising for being a twat.

'Again, mate', I say - because 'mate' is not just a term of endearment in this country, but a way of telling people to shut the fuck up. 'if I had a card, I would have used the card, surely?'

What I want to say is: 'if you don't understand the technology, back the fuck off', but I'm only that kind of person in my head.

'Well, plenty of people have back up cards'. I shrug and step back. I'm positive the clever retorts will come to me later, but for now, I'm wrapping the guy in a tarp and rope and throwing him off a pier in a bag of concrete. The third cashier beckons me over.

'I don't have a back up card either', he says quietly. 'Why would you, if you're using paywave? Sorry again, it's these damn machines'. I could kiss the guy. What part of 'it's not my phone' did Mr Know It All did not understand that the other two blokes did? What made him have to be right, when clearly his colleagues were saying something different? It's a special breed of person, these old boys who try to exercise what little power they think they have by trying to be the authority over any given situation.

I go in for what is the final tap, hearing the satisfying beep. There. Groceries paid for, with only a small scene and a handful of people waiting patiently to get their Aldi specials off the conveyer belt.

'Oh gawd' I say, picking up the box. 'I forgot to get bread.' The cashier laughs. He knows there's no way I'm going through this ordeal again, and certainly not past Mr Twat Balls.

In fact, I'll spend a good part of the sunny afternoon making foccacia just so I don't have to.

With Love,

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