Had to nip to the chemist this morning, and after giving her the fright of her life (“Creeping Jesus!!”) followed by a bit of embarrassed shuffling and whispering behind hands, she gave me a jet black carrier bag for ‘privacy’ so nobody can see what I had been in buying. I started rummaging in my pocket for 5p, but she told me not to worry, as for certain items that require ‘discretion’ you’re able to have one issued without paying the bag tax. And I stuttered a wee bit, and I thanked her, and—still blushing as I walked into the doorframe like an eejit—left.
I get on the bus at the stop right outside and sit opposite a ned, who clocks the bag, looks over his shoulder at the chemists out the window, smirks knowingly in the direction of said bag, and bowks over at me:
“Haw. Mate. Shits or johnnies?”
Sake.