The girl in the posh soap shop put her right arm out, palm flat in my face, and shouted: ‘Stand back! Step away from me now if you are going to remove your mask!’
I had been advancing on the Vetiver handwash, having failed to make myself clear through my mask to the assistant in her mask that this was what I wanted to buy and, being prevented from picking it up myself as the shop had a no-touch policy, I was driven to the brink of lawlessness.
‘Vetiver!’ I had begun pleading through my face mask as the girl lifted the wrong product off the shelves, over and over again.
She set Bergamot in front of me. She set Eucalyptus in front of me.
‘Vetiver!’ I begged, but all that was coming out was ‘e-i-ur!’
I pointed at the display cabinet and tried to single out the bright green bottle on the top shelf.
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