An irritable sort of morning thus far.

Friday is sort of my favourite day of the week, or rather is should be, but here I am, cranky as cat with a clothes peg on her tail.
You know what I dislike? Rude people and girls who spit.
I really for the life of me this morning cannot decide which of them I would axe kick in the forehead faster.
Dunne Stores in Rathmines-where I was this morning buying fleecy hoodies and slippers- has a stupid system for queueing. It has one long cordened off line directly in front of five checkouts-also in a line. What it needs is a little sign say 'queue starts here' on one side or the other.
Today I reached one end of the line just as a girl reached the other end. We both looked at each other but she smiled and then came down behind me.
'Sorry' says I, 'but you could have been right, I'm not sure which side is the start.'
'That's okay,' says she and we did that polite smile strangers do and waited for the SINGLE Cashier to finish up with his customer.
As soon as he had finished I was about to step forwards when lo, some woman and her lumpy teenage daughter appear from nowhere and wander down the line. The cashier -who is clearly a moron- looks like he might indeed serve them instead of pointing out that a small, yet orderly queue has already formed.
So I did.
'Excuse me, we were queueing here.'I call out politely.
The teenager gives me a dismissive look, the mother pretends like she can't hear me. Maybe I'll give up.
HAH!
'Excuse me! WE were here first!' I say in a very loud and firm voice, a voice that brooks no nonsense and will not be ignored. For good measure I step forward and plonk myself to the right of the cashier.
A stand off.
The mother gives me the eye. My nostrils flare. My eyebrow is acting imperious.
The cashier looks like the bar owner in one of those Westerns when the gun slinger rolls into town and pushes open his swing doors.
The Pianeeeeee stops playing.
Go ahead bitch, make my day.
Her fingers inch closer to the counter, mine tighten on my pink fleece slipper booties, I will use them if necessary.
The tension is palpable.
Then...
'Next there please.'
A second till has been opened, it is behind me. I won't be the one to turn. Oh NO, as God is my witness I won't.
By rights that till belongs to the wooman who was behind me, but I know her type, she won't make a move, and if she doesn't want to defend herself against rustlers that's her look out. Meanwhile more gringos are lining up, their hands bulging with control panal knickers and cheap leather gloves they will lose on buses.
What's it to be Lady? You like that teenager daughter of yours? Will you still like her when I plant one of my heels into the bridge of her shoddily clad feet? Your call.
'Next there!"
She called it. Gathering her things closer to her chest she bustles past me and on to the next till.
Triumphantly I fling my goods onto to the MDF counter.
Victory is mine.
Victory is short lived as the clown working behind the till takes forever to ring up my few items and I wait furiously as little miss queue jumper and her mother clear their things and toddle off.
Argh.
Finally I am free. I mutter grumpy thanks and snatch the brown paper bag from his clumsy fingers. I wander around the Swan Centre for a few brief moments before pushing out into the frigid air...
'Whahahahchchchhchc thweet.'
I stop, stunned as a girl in a brown tracksuit spits on the pavement inches from my feet.
'That's disgusting!" I say.
'So?' she says, giving me the eye.
There's a new gun slinger in town, and this town is only big enough for one of us. I take my pearl handled derringer from my bustier and shoot her in her minging face.
Well, in my head I did.
In reality returned to my home and ate a sausage and a slice of toast.
One battle at a time.