Tsk

The kiss of contempt and the hiss of horror

as I attempted to pay for my fruit and veg.

Behind me whispers and middle class poses,

the superior sniff of bourgeois noses.

I put my card in but fucked up the pin,

with patience running increasingly thin.

Contactless mode was disabled by then, 

while cash was sparse, around one pound ten. 

Matilda at the till tapped her fingernails

as the queue grew and awkwardness too.

Why not try the self-checkout machine? 

Instructions are clearly marked on the screen.

You failed again? Get out, she said,

and buy ready meals from Poundland instead.