Hit up at the undies counter

After days of unpacking boxes searching in vain for the knickers, I yelped with joy when I came upon a box of clothing. Digging madly through the lucky dip of jerseys, tights, and socks to locate the smalls (or in my case larges), alas, not one pair was to be found.

So the search continues as I return to the same store to buy yet another pair, ever hopeful that one day soon I will find the flock, if flock is the plural for multiple underpants.

Incidentally, if you ever wondered why knickers are referred to as a pair, the term dates back to Victorian times when women wore a pair of undergarments which covered each side of the bottom and thigh. They were tied at the waist while the region that Sir Les Patterson so colourfully refers to as ‘‘that triangular wooded area where seafood grows abundant’’ remained uncovered.

Gee whiz and fetch the smelling salts: that most private part of the anatomy was allowed to shoot the breeze and go commando. And they say that the Victorian era was sexually repressed.

It doesn’t matter how much stuff you have, and how savagely you may have culled your belongings, you still have to go out and buy more stuff for the new digs.

As my new pile, of what this gross consumer believed to be essentials, was being processed at a shop counter, the sales assistant asked me if I wanted to donate to their charity du jour, which was for children.

Feeling discombobulated from the move, I stupidly engaged, replying in the negative and adding how deeply I resented being hit up for a donation while doing what should be a straightforward, unadulterated transaction. I was going to add that I felt it was lousy of this large corporation to ask their frontline till bitches to collect for charity as well as perform their other tasks.

Before you admonish me for referring to shop assistants as ‘‘till bitches’’, I was one for the most part of this year and embraced the street slang moniker awarded me by a fellow till bitch, who was also a customer.

The pursed-lipped shop assistant replied that the charity was for kiddies and that was the most important thing, indicating judgment that I was insufficient in the compassion department, and tight to boot. She also added that I had been asked and I had said no, so there was no need for complaint and that should have been the end of the matter.

There was another customer in line, so it was time to wind it up. I sucked it up, smiled sweetly and took the receipt, exiting the store vowing never to return.

In the current environment I have to constantly remind myself that the road to hell is paved with those determined to display their good intentions.

There’s an epidemic of virtue signallers out there, and one should be constantly vigilant that, if you speak freely and raise objections, you can expect to be on the receiving end of a pass ag (passive aggressive) pitchfork.

If you don’t play the game, and are not seen to be playing the game by giving on command or joining the mob and lighting a candle, then your motives are questionable.

The pack rules and the mob decides what is good and bad. If you don’t join in, sign up and swim in the sea of blah then you are perceived to be a non-compliant unit.

So it’s over and out from this non-compliant knicker-free unit whose overwhelming ‘‘learnings’’ for 2018 is caveat emptor.