I am a peeping tom but only in UK changing rooms

Several days ago, while searching for the impossible, that of a cheap pair of slacks, my wife and I entered a clothing shop that will remain unnamed.

As we perused,  much like we are want to do,  I noticed a girl standing by the changing rooms fixated to a mirror and giving the kind of attention to her forwhead it seemed other parts of her anatomy did not receive often. How you ask, could I know this simply by looking at her?

Mostly due to the fact that she was ugly.

She was trying to put her eyebrow ring back into its hole. I found this to be a little disgusting but not by much, not until we approached the changing rooms with clothing to try and she, it turns out, is the help.

Now I'm disgusted, only because I don't want to touch her clammy little hands and its accompanying forehead puss, agreed?

Jack proceeds to enter the changing room while I assume the typical male posture of slightly interested in my surroundings but truly I'm just checking out the manikin's bust.

After a short period Jack emerges and decides the size she has on is too small, would I fetch a size up for her? Of course. I dutifully do as I am told, secretly enjoying that I can outfit my wife in whatever attire I deem sexy. A man should know his advantages.

I gather the required garment and proceed into the changing room where I am stopped by chlamydia fingers and told that I could not enter the changing hall. ??.

I stare at her blankly waiting for an explanation, none. This one's gonna be a pregnant teen statistic, you can just smell the lack of achievement on her. I retort irritated, 'Are we in the 21st century?'.

No reply. Shit, shouldn't have thrown numbers at her, its all confused now.

So I dumb it down.

'Why not'? I ask.

'It's UK law', she replies smiling.

I find that in my old age, the older I get that is, I find acceptance in the lack of words that describe my disillusion. Much like a man who understands his limits, knows when he faces greater odds than can justify the sacrifice. The man who is wise enough to just turn and walk away is the brother of the man I am becoming, I get snarky.

I sigh a 21 century acceptance. 'mmmm..', I muster.

I pass her the garment and tell her to give it to my wife. She does without apprehension or thought. She'll make a good unwilling concubine to a bastard child one day.

As Jack finishes this now un-enjoyable endeavor thanks to succubus of chlamydia over there, not even an accidental manikin nipple could make me smile. But I am then once again brought to my knees in 'what the fuck!' when as we approach the counter, who is on the phone shoving her thumb nail down into her throat trying to scratch out what I can only imagine is last nights semen fiesta but the fucking manager. While talking on the phone. While looking at us from the corner of her eye.

I hand over my debit card making a mental note to use the hand sanitizer I have in my bag after our transaction. Looking down to key in my pin I suddenly stand in awe. I look at what must be the dirtiest, darkest, overused number pad in all of Great Britain.

I've since sanitized my card.

I've since resigned at human faith.