Aisle Be Buggered!

Twice, now - in under a fortnight - I have been snubbed in the supermarket by a 'friend'. Libby. Quite deliberately and openly she has clocked me and about turned. Off in the direction of the deli-counter for smoked peacocks vomit or something rich and similarly unpalatable. Not that I'm usually fussed about who eats what. It's a little go at swallowing her pride she should try to order . Attitude and gratitude are free.

Why, you may ask, am I so bothered about this? I mean, we've all done it from time to time, and it's not the end of the world. I'll try to explain.

An old friend of my husband's (Bobby) married Libby around 7 years ago. She has a teenaged son - another Adam - from her first marriage. Bobby used to go fishing regularly with my hubby but that lessened as the years passed. They did attend a couple of barbeques of ours but hadn't stayed long. Our only contact whittled to Christmas cards. My husband missed his old fishing friend.

Last year, in the lead up to Christmas, Bobby called out of the blue, asking if PrettyBoy or GingerNut could teach Adam a few chords and rhythms on guitar as he wanted one for Christmas. Pretty Boy said that that would be no bother, so Adam came home straight to my house from school for a 90 minute session with him. He was offered some money for the lessons (as it would have cost £20 per half hour from his music teacher) but his little pupil learning things quickly was reward enough. Bobby picked him up after each lesson. By Christmas the little guy could play a whole song, plus managed to read simplistic musical notes and chords.

We were thanked and given an extra big card and tin of biccies, showing their appreciation. And we hadn't see hilt nor hair of them for most of this year. No arranged fishing trips with my hubby (as was agreed). An old loyal friend at one time. No invite to any of the barbeque that they arranged.

So, when I get treated with disdain, utter brazen rudeness, it really gets my goat. Heck, I even made out an exasperated sigh on her second aisle dodge. We really don't have a lot in common so I doubt if the 'conversation' would have lasted more than an awkward minute. But not even a daft wee acknowledgement. No smile. No wave. Not even a nod. She drives, lives, and dresses far more than my budget will ever cater for. But I'd rather be clad with holes and tears everywhere than scuffing the supermarket floor with Jimmy Choo heels in an quick, escapee spin.