I had another stange day at work. I was cleaning the burned up herbs from behind the till when a witch walked in. I say 'witch' not because this woman was obviously a follower of 'wicca' but because she looked like something that had jumped out of a childern's story book. Her body was crooked, her face twisted and warty and her fingers were long, boney and quite repulsive.
"I'm just going to ask, do you have any opium cones?" she croaked.
I was desperately hoping she didn't see me wince when I looked at her. "Yes, we do." I pulled some down from the shelf.
"Oh," she snatched them from my hand and gave the packet a good, hard wiff "No, these don't smell at all like opium. Do you have anything that smells more like opium?"
"We don't I'm afraid," Why would anyone want something that smelt more like opium? It smells rancid. It smells like a circut board in your house caught on fire and burned a bunch of old tires and plastic super market bags.
Damn witch.
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