Sucker

The other day I was the victim of a con. I knew I was being conned, as soon as the ebullient woman bounced up to me in Debenhams, brandishing a cheap purple plastic goodie bag. Rather like those ones on airplanes, which I always feel compelled to steal.

I was in a hurry, but something rooted me to the spot. Perhaps the desperation in her voice, masked as enthusiasm. She was foreign and the sign behind her read 'Dead Sea Nail Products'. Alarm bells were ringing, but I foolishly chose to ignore them.

Once she started talking, that was it. She never paused for breath once in the next five minutes, making me wonder how many hours a day she spent swimming underwater to enlarge her lung capacity. Or perhaps she had been trained in the Dead Sea itself, struggling against the buoyancy of the salt?

"Excuse me Madam, could you spare just two minutes? Put out your hand for me please (I obeyed, hypnotised). Now tell me which do you think is your worst nail?"

"Ummm, well, they're all pretty disgusting," was my shamed response, as I pointed to my filth encrusted thumb nail, regretting the fact that my morning gardening attempts were clearly visible under it. I was about to launch into an explanation for said dirt when,

"Okay, see, would you like to transform them in just two minutes, I'm not kidding, using this magic buffer?" (Basically an emery board, but glued to a cuboid). "It's really amazing, you'll see. Look, I rub the nail like this. It's really easy, you just follow the steps. See, like this:
Step 1, just rub it and this extracts all the toxins from your nails, you know, the brown stains and batterings from life;
Step 2 impregnates your nail with magical Dead Sea properties and can help your nails grow and strengthen and your cuticles disappear and the last step;
Step 3, you really won't believe this" (practically orgasmic now) "your nails will look so different, everyone is amazed when they see this. Are you ready? 1,2,3..."(her face glowed with messianic fervour). "Okay now. LOOK!"

"Oh my God, that is incredible." I was genuinely amazed. My scruffy nail was positively sparkling, as if it had undergone some intensive makeover.

She looked triumphant, with an 'I told you so' smugness that, frankly, started to put me off.

Cynically, I asked, "Yeah, but how much does it cost?"

She was ready for this, almost jumping up and down in her excitement.

"Ah, today, and only today, is special offer. You see, you can have all this" (she dangled the purple bag temptingly in front of my nose) "with all these wonderful Dead Sea Products."
This beautiful hand cream" (she opened it and more or less shoved it up my nostril. It smelled initially of vanilla, but then I got a sickening whiff of sulphorous rotten eggs). "Beautiful, yes?
"This handy cuticle remover" (which looked more like an olive skewer); "cuticle cream and an ordinary emery board, for putting in your purse. All this is £10 off today. And" (clutching my arm) "the buffer is guaranteed for two years. Keep the receipt and when it wears out, we will replace it for NOTHING. As many times as you want. Incredible! Yes?"

"And for you," (turning to Zoe) "if your mum buys one, you get one half price. Unbelievable!"

I felt this was a cheap trick. Undue pressure. She could see that Zoe was clearly impressed.

"Oh, go on Mum, buy one."

"Yeah, but how much will that be?" I tried again.

"It's incredible, because you can buy this for only £20.00 and then the second one is only £15.00."

I tried to do a quick calculation in my head. It sounded a huge amount, but, by then, I was totally confused, my thumb nail glowed with a radioactive sheen and I didn't know how to get away.

"Oh alright." I agreed, rather bitterly.

She shook my hand profusely, grabbed two packs and led me swiftly to the cash desk, where she signed the receipt. No doubt thinking of the vast commission she'd made from my folly.

"Are you from round here?" We lingered near the till Cocktail party chat now.

I told her and asked where she was from.

"Where do you think?"

"Israel?" I replied, not really knowing why. She just had that look about her. I had lived in Golders Green for years.

"How did you know?!" She was amazed. "Most people think I'm Spanish."

I laughed, secretly quite pleased with myself, but didn't want to go into the whole Golders Green thing, or the fact that Israelis have a reputation for being pushy, and this young woman was the definition of pushy. No doubt about it.

"Oh, I just had a feeling." I said, elusively.

I paid the astronomical total, working out later it would take a nine hour shift to earn that amount again.

I hated myself, my stupid weakness.

To make matters worse, when I told someone about it the next day, they laughed and said, "Oh, I know those things. You can buy them at Boots for £2.50."

"But you don't get the cream and all the other stuff. And the nice purple bag," I said, somewhat defensively.

To add insult to injury, Rob said, "Next time, go to Homebase. Sandpaper's only about £1.00 a sheet there."

What I want to know is, do I actually have 'SUCKER' tattoed on my forehead in ink invisible only to me?

Life

I am in contemplative mood. Thinking about life and how precious it is, following the sudden death of a man who worked in the pub - Simon. He was 43 years old, a father of two children, and yesterday, he keeled over and died of a massive heart attack (at least that's what they think, not that it matters, because he is dead).

My immediate reaction to this sort of thing is to grab a drink (Simon would have approved, he was not averse to alcohol) and toast to Simon's life, delaying the resolution to give up alcohol immediately. If that happened to Simon, it could happen to me, ergo, live life to the full. Enjoy every moment.

Toast to the fact he was one of those 'salt of the earth' types.

I was just getting to know him, having quite disliked him initially. My dislike was based on hearsay mainly, village gossip and a few racist remarks he had made. Of course, he was not perfect.

But when I got to know him as a work colleague, my opinion changed entirely. (Ah, the danger of making hasty judgements about people).

We are all devastated, those who worked with him, who chatted to him as he smoked outside, who sat with him in comfortable silence. He was a man of few words, happy with his own company, but also happy to be amongst others. I expect he was listening carefully, taking it all in. A friend of mine, who loved Simon very much, summed him up in one word: 'tender'. I believe she was right.

He was an extremely clever man. Not in the 'traditional' way - rumour had it he was illiterate. But in matters practical, he was a frigging genuis, the handiest person you could meet, with the mind of an engineer. In the pub, he was always the Mr Fix It.

Garbage disposal clogged up. "Simon, can you sort this out?" And he did, no fuss, just got on with it.
"Simon, how do I change this barrel?" He showed you, patiently.

We sat around like zombies yesterday, thinking of this man, who had lived in the village all his relatively short life, whom some might regard as a 'nobody' (whatever that means?) and we missed him. His sister came to arrange the wake. She reckoned three hundred people would turn up. If only Simon could know how many people cared about him, respected him, want to pay homage to him.

Maybe he does.