An elderly chap served me. We exchanged small town pleasantries. Then down to business. They buy sacks of these markies and make them up into bags themselves, as you can see.
I stood at the counter – a bit like in the 4 candles sketch – and asked for a 1kg bag. He took one from the shelf behind him, turned to me and holding it by the top, he flipped his wrist and brought the bag crashing down onto the counter. A right wallop. The counter vibrated. I gave him my money, picked up the bag and, turning it over, saw that his exuberance had broken all the treats on that side.
He gave me my change. Now I never normally complain about anything, but we had been getting along in a fashion, so I showed him the mess he'd made and said “Um, most of these are broken. Have you got another bag?” There was a long pause. No, much, much, longer. Then he let out a huge a Shropshire sigh, and turned around to find a replacement, what looked to be the last remaining. He turned back towards me with the bag. Which he proceeded to smash onto the counter in exactly the same manner. I looked at him. He looked at me. “Thanks,” I said, “cheers, bye.”