Stale mate…

We’re having a stale mate. Well, at least I am. I’m not sure that the other know’s that they’re involved. I’m not sure that it matters. I’m stubborn, and I live by principles that I make up in my head, and after living as something of a push-over, I’m taking my little victories where I can.

For instance, I stood up to a man in the super market. He was taller than me, by a good foot, and he was wider than me, by a good brick shit house. He was cradling his goods in his hands, and despite having arrived in the queue – in the line, for my American readers – a good thirty seconds after me, the person before me had screwed up the structure and it left us adjacent. Now, the person directly before me, knew that I was directly after him. We’d arrived at around the same time, but his wife, or girlfriend, or sister, or some other female counterpart, had been playing the game of ‘who will reach the front first?’ and she’d succeeded in winning first place. As my friend in front, the skew-whiffer of queues, left, the big man – I must stress, he was a big, intimidating man – tried to step in front of me. This was after I’d smiled, and this was after I’d asserted myself as the person who was next. He took up his beef. He tried to throw his weight around – and he could throw it and kill me, had he liked – but I was brave. I straightened my spine, and I apologised for his misgivings – because I always have, and always will be a polite young lady – and assured him that I was most definitely the next consumer to divulge of their hard-earned Lizzies (Lizzies are my UK slang for the Great British currency, much like ‘Benjamins’ are to the Americans). He continued to huff and puff, despite my shaky assertion – he was a big man, did I tell you he was big?

When I took my place at the counter, he was served less than five seconds behind me. Much ado about nothing, I’d say, but I felt proud for standing up for myself (even though I checked the outside of the store nervously as I exited in case he was waiting to bash me over the head with a tin of beans).

And I brought that little surge of fighter’s strength into my other battles. I won’t go into the specifics, but I’m not one to crack. I’m easily annoyed by people who take things for granted, so my stale mate will continue until they concede. I am a warrior, now. I suppose you should hear me roar, although it’s not much of a loud battle, but a subtle and quiet effort.

Maybe, whilst the battle rages, I should start work on my superhero outfits. Surely the only logical step from standing up to a giant in the super market is to become a costumed vigilante?

Until next time!

Live Long and Prosper.

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