The Selfie Saga, Part Two: The Selfening

This is part two in a three-part series that just goes to show exactly how self-obsessed people who write blogs can be. Part one can be found here.

When I finally gave up on taking the right picture I decided to just use one I’d taken to show people my new hair, and planned to get it printed out that weekend, because I’d been putting it off for the entire previous week and had run out of time. I ended up on an unplanned trip with a friend to see a play, and there was one grotty Boots near the theatre. I left my play date (not a euphemism. We literally went to a play because we are thesps.) and ducked inside to quickly print off my photo.

At first, I thought this particular Boots was so grotty there actually wasn’t any photo machine. Why couldn’t I find the machine? Because it was hidden behind some idiots who were trying to print off 700 pictures of them standing in various bikinis on various beaches drinking various stuff out of things (pineapples, coconuts, and the like). I shouldn’t call them idiots. I’m trying to do this thing at the moment where I don’t automatically hate everybody I see, but seriously. I was still standing behind them twenty minutes later, as they discussed the individual merits of each photo and then occasionally accidentally deleted everything from their basket. It was like my tutting and foot tapping meant nothing to these people.

Eventually they walked away, and I could print off my own face several times over. I waited for the little slip for the cashier to scan, which never arrived. I stuck my hand into every available hole in that machine (wahey), hoping it would remember to give me the stupid receipt-y, slip-py thing, and it didn’t. So I went to the counter without it.

I told the man at the counter that I had three prints and, like a diligent employee, he wanted to check. So I handed them over and had no choice but to stand there and take the shame as he flipped through the three copies of my own face. After that, it turned out that he actually didn’t know how to let me pay for them without a slip, and called over his colleague. She had a look at the three copies of the same selfie. She didn’t know how to do it either.

Seven employees later I was able to pay. I wasn’t – and I’m still not – sure exactly how many people really needed to be involved, but the staff of Boots taught me a valuable lesson that day, which is that if you’re going to pay money to print out several copies of your own face, you have to be willing to admit that to several people wearing white tabards.

This is part two in a three-part series exploring how self-obsessed I can really get. We’ve only just started plaumbing those depths, believe me.

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