About a thirty second walk from the front door of my student house in Cardiff is a little shop, owned by probably the friendliest people you’ll ever have had serve you a KitKat Chunky. They’re always up for a chat, and clearly enjoy their jobs.
Which is why, when in the queue today I dropped a bottle of diet coke on the floor, I faced one of the biggest dilemmas of my life to date. Should I pick it up, and buy it, even though it’s all shaken up? Or should I go back to the fridge, put it back, and take another one? The guy behind the till had seen what I’d done. He would see me put the shaken-up one back, and take a new one, and he wouldn’t be thrilled about it. At the same time, he wouldn’t say anything. Because he’s not like that.
In the end, I decided it was best to take a new one. So, in the most awkward move of my life, I casually bypassed the queue, slid open the door, put it back, took another one, regained my place in the queue, and pretended as though nothing had happened. I felt fine until it was my turn to pay, and this guy looked at me with what I can only describe as the eyes of an injured puppy.
Obviously, I immediately felt as if I’d just ruined his life. Almost to the point where I was going to take the shaken-up, due-to-explode, but probably now flat coke back from the fridge and pay for that one too. I didn’t, because who has the money to buy two bottles of coke when one will do? Not me.
But that’s the story of my morning. Somehow, I’ve written 338 words about dropping a bottle of coke on the floor in a corner shop. I guess the moral of the story is to buy cans instead.
At least when you drop them, they explode completely and your choice is made that much easier.