A Hole In Your Story.

“I’m going to have to speak to my manager about it,” the cashier told me.

It was early on a weekday morning, so early that the top shop in Oxford Street had literally just opened its doors, so I was the only person at the counter.

With the bra in hand, she disappeared, and was gone for at least half an hour, then returned with her manager, who immediately, and sharply, insisted, that she needed to see my receipt.

“She has it,” I nodded my head at the cashier, who I had given the receipt to when I gave her the damaged bra.

“Do you have it?” The manager inquired, at the time, I didn’t realise that the tone of her voice suggested she didn’t believe I had given the other girl my receipt.

Silently, the girl handed her manager the small piece of paper. The manager studied it for a good five minutes, even though it only had one item on it. Then she turned her attention back to me. “Is this your bag?”

I nodded. I was starting to feel uneasy.

“Is it the bag we gave you when you bought this?” She put so much emphasis on the word bought that I knew I was being accused of something, but because it sounded like I was being accused of buying it, at least to me, which I had indeed bought it, I suddenly felt guilty. Meekly, I confirmed that it was the Topshop bag they had giving me when I bought the item.

She snatched it up aggressively, riffled through it, peered intently inside it, tipped it upside down and shook it violently, before slamming it back down on the counter, and returning her attention to the receipt.

“When did you buy it?”

“Saturday.”

“What time?”

“I don’t remember,” I honestly didn’t. “Doesn’t it say what time I bought it on the receipt?”

“It does, that’s why am asking. Do you have the card you paid on with you?”

“Yes, but I don’t want a refund, I just want to change it for one that isn’t damaged. I didn’t notice the hole before I bought it.”

“I need to see the card,” she demanded, that aggression she displayed earlier present in her voice.

I took my debit card out of my purse, but before I could offer it to her, she yanked it from my fingers so hard it hurt me a little bit.

After holding it next to the receipt and studying both for another five minutes, she slammed both down on the counter and huffed at the cashier that she needed to speak to her manager about it.

“Is there a problem?” I asked the cashier, once the manager was gone.

“The hole is where the security tag would’ve been,” The cashier explained.

This would make sense, because I didn’t see the hole before I bought it and there had indeed been a security tag on it, although I don’t recall the security tags exact location, but the store was busy when I bought it, and I do recall that the lady who served me had been rushing, also the back was lace, which was the location of the hole, meaning the heavy metal tag could have damaged the delicate lace regardless of how carefully, or roughly, it was removed.

When the two managers joined us, the new one interrogated me in almost the exact same way as the first one had (this manager showed no interest in the bag) then sternly informed the cashier that I was allowed an exchange only.

The entire incident was so exhausting and upsetting, that even when they didn’t have another pink lace bra in my size, and the only bra they did have in my size was this hideous shade of denim blue, I took it without complaining.

Later though, I complain to my friends at work about it.

Even though this incident happened after the incident in my previous story, and I had never had so much trouble returning anything to a shop before (or since) it didn’t occur to me until I recounted the event to my friends that the issue was my accent.

Every single person I told, said they had returned items to that top shop before, some of them for the same reason, and that they had never had any problems with getting a refund.