Do you have a nectar card?

I

It's a Saturday afternoon. Peter is in the pub reading the Independent and waiting for Nigel at their usual table: far away enough from the toilets to avoid the smell, yet close enough for them to make frequent trips now that the years have taken their toll on the middle-aged bladders. Nigel enters with a fresh tattoo on his forehead marked in thick black ink and a beaming smile on his face.

“Hi Pete, how's it going?” he asks nonchalantly.

“Hi mate,” he says while finishing the sentence he was reading in the paper, before looking up at Nigel's forehead and sighing. “What have you got on your forehead?”

“It's a tattoo Peter, obviously. It says “no, I do not have a Nectar card.”

“Well, I don't have one either but I don't brag about it.”

“Yeah but, you know when you buy something in a shop and they ask you if you have a Nectar card?”

“Yeah.”

“And it's really annoying because you don't have one...”

“A little bit, I suppose.”

“So I got this tattoo, which explains clearly that I do not own a Nectar card. That way cashiers can just read the information off my forehead rather than having to ask me, and I can just show the cashier my forehead instead of having to tediously explain my situation regarding Nectar cards. I'm literally saving hundreds of hours.”

“But you just say “no.””

“What?”

“When somebody asks you if you have a Nectar card, you just say “no.” It takes a fraction of a second, and you probably say it while bagging up your shopping or entering your pin number anyway, and thus you can exchange the information at no detriment to your inexplicably busy schedule.”

“Hey, why did you say “inexplicably busy schedule” in such a sarcastic tone?”

“You just spent a couple of hours getting a completely redundant forehead tattoo.”

“Yeah but... Okay so I may not save time at the checkout per se, but at least it's one less word I have to say to the cashier. I hate those people.”

“They having a terribly boring job to do and they work for nothing, you could at least show them some respect.”

“But they have spots and smell like grease.”

“So what?”

“And they always wear those stupid jackets. They're like walking advertisements.”

“That's their uniform.”

“Yeah well... I hate poor people.”

II

Nigel is in Homebase, bagging up curtain hooks, batteries and a floral mug. His excitement is tangible; this is the first time he's had the chance to put his new tattoo into action. This is going to be great, Nigel thought, I am such a practical man. This will show Peter who's awesome.

“That's £12.32 please,” said the cashier.

“There you go.”

“Do you have a Nectar card?”

“I'm sorry what?”

“Do you have a Nectar card?”

“Read my forehead.”

“'No... I do not have a... Nectar card.' Oh right, sorry. Force of habit.”

“Well it's not okay. I spent a lot of money on this tattoo; the least you could do is read it.”

“Sorry I didn't notice. I process dozens of customers every day. I have to ask if they have a Nectar card; it's my job.”

“But I have conveniently provided the answer to your question in writing on my face in order to avoid this trouble and save our time.”

“It seems like you're only wasting more time by having this conversation. Do you think I enjoy having to ask everyone if they have a Nectar card. “Do you have a Nectar card? No.” “Do you have a Nectar card? No.” “Do you have a Nectar card? No.” For every single customer. Nobody has a Nectar card; they're completely useless. I know that as well as you. I'm not an idiot. I don't do this for fun, you know? I don't go round all my friends and family asking if they have Nectar cards and discussing the potential benefits of Nectar cards. I work for a multi-national corporation that is affiliated with the Nectar card company and therefore I am required, as part of my contract, to ask every customer if they have a Nectar card, and enquire as to whether or not they intend to get one. You don't need to get a tattoo to tell me how annoying that is.”

“Yeah well... I hate poor people.”

And with that Nigel fled into the distance. The sound of his plastic bags bumping irritatingly against his knees drowned out the cashier's explanation that actually he was from a middle-class family and was working part-time in order to earn a bit of money for himself and, by the way, could he interest Nigel in a Hombase store card?