Standing in line in Londis I wait patiently clutching a bottle of dry white wine. I’m at the back and my mind wonders. I drift off to a special place only I know, thinking about cabbages or things I can’t stand. I realise the que hasn’t moved for some time and this lack of movement has awoken me. I peer forward to see what the hold up is. There at the front is a lady standing at the counter. She is short, has long grey hair and a long black coat. She is not happy and also a little drunk. Not rolling drunk but consumed by alcohol a relationship which has numbed her. It is as if alcohol occupies every part of her. Every cell is saturated, she is the alcohol and as one vessel recognises another she stares longingly at the large bottles of Vodka on the shelves behind the cash till. A slim and composed shop assistant from the asian subcontinent is standing between her and her socially acceptable drug of choice. Her words are faint and distant but its easy to fill in the blanks as the grey haired woman starts her loud campaign for booze.
"Its no fe me" she says, the fe me is exaggerated for greater emphasis, as if the calm figure behind the counter is a little dim and having trouble understanding this complicated evaluation of the situation. "Its fe me daughter" she says, presumably to the shop assistant yet turning around with a sweeping glance across the que behind her. Its a knowing look she gives us. We are the audience now and she is the actor in this her play. We are supposed to be on her side of course, being local, but her faith in her acting ability betrays her and the audience is lost. Her boozy state is so familiar to her she no longer knows what normal is. The asian ladies part is that of an extra or an ornamental set piece. She stands there as the irate woman, face hagged and ravaged by drink and fags and a closed off life of bitterness, yells at her. Half turned and without making eye contact "fuck sake" she says, she knows the battle is lost.
"Malk" calls the girl from behind the counter, raising her head as she does and turning towards a sturdy looking Eastern European guy. He lurks eternally between the wine and the beer isles, his roll as beefcake security man at last called for. English not required a capacity for boredom helpful. Malk shuffles forward, he has stumpy legs no neck and a chunky knit jumper. Arms are crossed he is awoken, he the caricature ugly brute and she the flowerlike damsel.
A look just one look tells a thousand stories. He regards the drunk, its all thats needed, she spits venom back.
"Its no yer country, yer takin our jobs, yer tellin me I can nee ha any alcohol and no even fe here"
I stand in line good as gold embarrassed to be a member of this local elite. What do these migrant workers think of us? Yet they still come. How awful must the rest of the world be, or perhaps the extra money is worth the abuse for a time. Welcome to Scotland.
