The "cashier's friend" at the supermarket checkout. The one who's always standing in front of you when you're in a hurry, and who you just know has only come into the shop for a chat with her "friend" because she has nothing useful to contribute to society that might require her to be elsewhere.
So while you're waiting your turn at the till, with steam coming out of your ears, these two morons are discussing their rheumatism, their holidays, their grandchildren, their gardens, and how lovely it is to have so little to do in the afternoons. Grrrrr. And the cashier does nothing to try and move her friend along and out the door. You are doomed, stuffed, condemned to this torture until it decides to stop.
The cashier's friend invariably has a sheaf of coupons and money-off offers, half of which will be out of date. And by the time the idiot woman (it is, alas,
always a middle-aged woman) has finished laboriously packing her stuff into her overweight bags (because she hasn't brought a trolley), you just know that she won't be able to find her loyalty card, or her credit card, or to remember her PIN number. And then she'll remember that she wants some cashback, but not if it's going to be in £20 notes, and she doesn't like those fivers with that miserable blue woman on them, so it's tenners only or she isn't interested.
And so it goes on. Buttock-clenchingly, blood-vessel-burstingly maddening. Grrrrrr again.
BJ