I’ve just had some shopping delivered by Sainsbury’s (it’s alright, I had a voucher), and it reminded me of something. See, I allowed Anna to handle most of the ‘deciding what to put in the CYBER-TROLLEY’ stuff, so I didn’t have to bother. Also I would just get £50 worth of noodles. But in doing so she evidently decided, without me noticing, that for this particular delivery I would be Captain Dransfield. Hence when the pleasant delivery chap arrived, he kept addressing me as “Captain”.
This made me laugh.
But it’s not the first time it’s happened, and I hope I’m not alone in this, otherwise we may have discovered some bizarre proto-fetish I have and didn’t formerly know about. Aside from the obvious “King”, “Sir” and “Queen” titles I’ve had on post, packages and other such deliveries, I have had one wonderful experience in the Leeds branch of Specsavers.
My friend Kat worked there at the time and so, when I went in to get some new specs, she filled out my personal details. In it she decided I would be Viscount Dransfield. I laughed, then immediately forgot about this. Half an hour later when it was my appointment time, the waiting room was addressed by a slightly confused-looking employee of the shop (who wasn’t Kat), asking for “Viscount… Dransfield?”
I stood and strode confidently toward her, knowing full well everyone in there was probably stupid enough to think I actually was some form of special person. Special in the good way, that is. Later on I overheard another employee discussing with her colleagues how the shop had “royalty” in that day, and how everyone should be on their best behaviour.
I laughed. Kat laughed. But Specsavers had the last laugh. £300 for a pair of fucking glasses? Do you not know who I am?