Always Finding Mr Wrong
Instead, he mutters something under his breath, shoves his debit card into his wallet and, with his head bowed, scuttles away with the trolley.
The poor girl must wonder whether she’s got halitosis. I almost challenge this behaviour in the car park, but stop myself. I know what it’s about and torturing Scott by bringing it up will only make things worse. When it comes to women, he’s desperately, dysfunctionally shy – and always will be.
So, when we get into the car, I don’t say anything. Nothing at all. Instead, I calculate the syn value of the crisps which, it emerges to my disbelief, will put me over my weekly quota in one go.
Bab Populer