Next in the queue is a Scottish woman. She’s being quite aggressive. She wants a coffee, and it becomes apparent that she is a drug addict, trying to get her sugar fix, asking how many packets she can have for free. The assistant doesn’t understand. She tells the young man she wants eight packets of sugar.
“I’m an epileptic,” she shouts. “I need eight packets for my blood sugar.”
The assistant looks even more confused.
I decide to assist and make everyone’s lives much easier.
“I think she means ‘diabetic’, not ‘epileptic’,” I tell the server cheerily, smiling at the woman as well. I’m such a diplomat, I think. I’m simultaneously giving knowing smiles to two people and helping out their situations.
The Scottish woman gets really angry. “What the fuck do you know, you fucker?” she says. “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”
“I was just trying to help everyone,” I say.
“Well then,” she says. “Fuck you.”
By now, a worried-looking manager is approaching with handful of sugar packets and hands them over to the woman. I look away sheepishly, hoping she can resist the urge she is probably having to throw the scalding contents of her cup to my face. I don’t deserve a burned face, I think, not for just trying to help a fake diabetic.
Luckily, she is pacified by the huge amounts of free sugar. She wanders away, muttering. “Don’t try and tell ME I’m not diabetic, sunshine,” she says.
I go back to waiting for my veggie burger. Everyone in the queue is looking at me like I did something terrible to the woman.