When the instructions on your extra strength medicine say no caffeine obey them-

Day 8 of the jiggered kidney & Hollie takes a trip to Primark

A few nights before I had accidentally purchased a size 12-14 underwear set, still sealed in the container I queued hopefully to exchange it for my size. It was hot in the shop and I wore my woolly cardigan and an old woman who was gradually passing out onto my arm. Shade of face: beetroot.
There was one android on the customer service till and three bimbos loitering at the changing room desk. At the front a junkie hound was being served, returning goods to the tune of my annual income. The till girl moved slowly, slack jawed and spaced out, her pupils unfocused.

She bleeped a few barcodes through before stopping…looking…sighing…ringing the bell for assistance…then waiting…no explanation…just staring off into that middle distance between two people facing each other.
Meanwhile somewhere in the back of the store Satan had turned the heating up.
Another girl was finally dropped onto the adjacent till and began ringing through a purchase only to mess it up at the last second…stopped…looked…sighed and rang the bell for assistance. At this moment my FFS was audible through gritted teeth…another 10 minutes passed.
Finally, I was beckoned over by the vacant robotron on till one. I explained my situation to which she reeled off from her manual:
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
But it’s in the sealed container; I unfortunately picked up the wrong size!
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
I don’t want to return it I want to exchange it.
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
It’s not my size; I simply want my own size.
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
So what you are saying is I’ve just wasted my money?
It’s Primark’s Policy not to return underwear.
To which I flipped out and so the sh*t fit began. I made to storm off then came back and snatched up my receipt as though it bared any significance. Then turned around and began to try and march out of the shop, Primark is not a place you can march out of. It’s a labyrinth of displays and pushchairs- so fuelled by my rage (and perhaps the fact I had broken the no caffeine rule, or that I am as my Mum reminds me a hell witch) I began tipping over the displays, pushing stacks of jumpers on the floor and kicking the socks off the wee hangers.
In short I trashed Primark, which as we all know looks like a jumble sale anyway, so my tantrum went unnoticed by security but I did hear one member of staff enquire as to what I was doing.
Then off I went stamping along Braehead Shopping Centre before baying to the afternoon sky out in the car park.