Rite Aid in Highland Park, that is, to buy some shampoo. It's the kind of store where one isn't sure whether the toy cars on display are vintage models, or have simply been there a very, very long time. I'm sure the former - but they still look just like the ones that I used to race, together with Andrew Pemberton, the whole long length of his parents' house - or at least from the kitchen threshold to the living room threshold, a corridor which had a tricky, Brand's Hatch like kink in it.
Today's trip was enlivened by the clientele, especially a cheerful but decidedly strange middle aged man with a dog on a leash. He was told that "pets aren't allowed in the store." He took no notice - and then started to get very agitated when he thought that the store staff had called the sheriff (as if they could be bothered ...). The dog looked confused, but whether this was because she was with him, or because she was half pit-bull and half greyhound, one couldn't tell. What was certain, though, was that the line waiting behind the guy at the check out took his part (the usual HP sedition against toxic store employees), asking about her breed, complimenting her beauty, and generally making them both feel at home. The aggressive store personnel seemed to melt away ... but on my way out, I could see why: they were bearing down on a man in the wine section who was taking down some bottles (Rite Aid in HP, because it sells kosher wine and spirits, has a liquor license, which is one of the few good things going for it - maybe the only one) - and he had a large cigar in his mouth. Good luck to them - he also was wearing two hearing aids ...
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