SALE OF THE CENTURY

I am buying underpants in Next. Five pairs for £7.

I take them to the checkout but the man behind the counter looks at them and pulls a face.

Does he think they are an embarrassing purchase for a 33 year-old? ‘Look at him,’ he’s thinking, ‘he still reckons he’s a 20-something who will appear cool in these. Pathetic!’

But no. He’s examining them because there’s something wrong.

‘There’s only three pairs in here,’ he says. ‘I can’t sell them.’

I already know that they are the last pack in the sale. I think on my feet.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘can’t you just knock down the price?’

‘I can’t do that, sir. They’re damaged.’

‘I don’t think they are,’ I say. ‘I think there are just two missing.’

I put on my best pleading look, as if I'll have to walk round pantless for the rest of my life. To my astonishment, it works.

‘I’ll ask my supervisor,’ he says.

This could go one of two ways. Suddenly, buying these three pairs of pants becomes the biggest deal in the world. It will either be a victory for decency and the common man or proof of how we’ve all gone to hell in a handcart in this politically correct, New Labour world where parents can’t video their kids performing in the school orchestra and nobody can light a firework without first attending a course.

He comes back.

‘My supervisor says I can take £2.66 off the marked price,’ he says.

I quickly work out that they have been reduced by more than a third and am now full of elation. ‘Yes!’ I think, ‘common sense can prevail, two men can work such problematic things out without recourse to lawyers! This is a great day!’

I pay and stare at him with glee. What a wonderful man.

He gives me my change and stares back at me with, what is that? Love? Could it actually be love?

Then he looks to my side and I realise there is a queue of people behind me.

I nod and leave.