Suspicious minds

"I don't want to touch you, mate."

I've had some knock-backs in my time, but that's just rude. I wasn't all that keen on this guy touching me either, but when someone accuses you of stealing Stanley knives the least they can do is have the courage of their convictions and bloody well search you.

It started with an average, acne-ridden, home superstore Sales boy asking if I need help. He's followed by a man I suspect is his boss. We have a conversation about cutting carpet with Stanley knives. The excitement! My suspicion is yet to be aroused. It's probably training. You know, a go out there and meet the customers kind of thing.

I thank them and turn to walk away when I notice another one behind me. That's three, and suddenly something's wrong. In an orgy of self-belief I wonder if I can take them all out with a Bourne-like flurry of kung-fu bad-assery.

Then it happens. Head guy asks me if I'm carrying any more of their products. He does it in that officious, smug way that means he thinks he's caught me on the hop. The kind where every sentence could potentially end in the word "sonny".
I don't really get what he means because I'm not a shoplifter by trade. (I dabbled. When I was small I stole some bubblegum from Tesco and a chocolate football from the local sweet shop. I've just about worked out the guilt.)

Then it hits: he wants to know if I'm stealing from them.

Apparently some sharp-eyed customer has seen me stuffing things up my shirt. I know this is a lie because there hasn't been anyone in this aisle but me.

And this, believe it or not, is where it gets embarrassing. Because I'm five minutes out of an eight mile run. How do you admit to Mr Homebase that eight mile runs aren't good for the nipples? That what passes for shoplifting craft knives is actually stemming the blood with a hankie? You can't. You keep quiet, empty your pockets and then offer to let them search you, in the nicest possible way a sweaty, innocent man can when surrounded by homebase staff in the stanley knife aisle.

But head guy doesn't want to.

I mutter something about running, though why I did is beyond me. I think I'm worried my sweatiness is a sign of guilt. But still none of them push it. They're convinced that I'm bristling with the kind of arsenal you find on an average council estate but none of them care so much that they want to pat down a man carrying his own weight in sweat. So they shuffle away, wittering about not being too careful, probably to check the CCTV so they can re-descend at the first indication that I'm making it up.

In a fit of high-mindedness I wonder whether I actually need wood glue and a stanley knife. But then carpet never gets cut, and the floorboard-sized lump of wood hanging off the living room door never gets glued.

They never came back to nail me, but they didn't apologise either. Maybe they were scarred for life by the sight of me blotching my nipples on CCTV.

The episode revealed three things:
1) When jogging, nipples must be covered.

2) Superstore staff don't care if you're not a shoplifter. They only care when you are.

3) Worst case scenario, I reckon I could have had the lot of 'em.