Fag Hag Diary

Time of the month.

The Fag Hag had an ego-bruising incident in Boots yesterday.

As the reasonably cute looking young Indian guy on the till was efficiently bagging up my family sized boxes of Tampax and Make-Up Remover Wipes for Very Mature Skin, he asked if I wanted to fill out a form for a new Advantage card. Aware of the tutting, watch-tapping queue forming behind me I decided there was nothing I would like better than to prolong their agony so set about writing down my address, marital status and horror of horrors, date of birth. 

‘Thank you very much, Madam.’ He cast an attractively long-eyelashed glance over my printed vital stats.

‘Oh. You’re a “Miss” I see?’ Ah, you gotta love that boy – he’s only hitting on me!

‘Yep, that’s right,’ I smiled.

‘Can I just say,’ he said shyly, ‘I’m very surprised that you’re still single.’

I gave him my foxiest Cougar stare and laughed prettily, ‘Why thank you, I’m extremely flattered – you charmer!’

The boy frowned suddenly with embarrassment. ‘No, I just meant… with your age… it’s a little bit unusual in my culture. That’s £23.47 please.’

I shall be purchasing my Tampax elsewhere from now on.

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More dolly #content:

3 comments to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. Oh Fag Hag, been there, had that done to me…

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  2. Oh, that did make me larf! I needed that …

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  3. I was checking in for a flight with my mum and the check-in girl asked me — not my mother, who was standing right next to me — she asked ME whether my mother would be needing a wheelchair to get to the gate. I was caught between laughing my arse off, and telling my mum not to smack the bitch upside her tango orange face.

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