Carded. In Britain?

I went to ASDA today to pick up some stuff. In that eclectic, rather worrying Aquarian way, I ended up picking, alongside normal groceries, oysters. I only realised that they were, of course, live after the fish counter woman put them in the bag and then it was too late to just dump them elsewhere in the supermarket.

It was while I was standing idly at the till with my oysters, Grauniad and wine that I saw, plastered all along the row of cashiers, photographs of people obviously in their twenties with the message: 21? NOT SURE? REMEMBER TO ASK!

This didn't concern me, what with January meaning the terrible quarter of a century, so I concentrated instead on staring blankly ahead. That was until the cashier turned to me as the person ahead was packing and said, "I hope you don't mind... I just... I don't think you look 21. Do you have ID?"

"Um... no?" I said.

"We need to ask anyone who looks under 21."

"But I'm 24!" I cried, "nearly 25! For... I mean... the legal age to buy alcohol is eighteen, anyway!"

Then she went on and on and on about how terribly sorry she was, and how awful it was, but bloody Wal-Mart, who took over ASDA and swore they wouldn't bring their style of management over, is demanding that they only sell to people who look over 21 or who can prove otherwise. In the end, I fobbed her off with my European Health Insurance card, that I was thankfully still lugging around with me after Italy. She apologised several times again, and I left wondering whether to be bemused, flattered or annoyed. This had better not be a regular thing with that store. Feck off, Wal-Mart!

At home, I just remembered the oysters, so decided to eat my poor live suckers. Except I don't have an oyster knife, and they were buggers to open. I cut my hand twice-- thankfully, minor cuts. Then Mary hit upon the novel idea of throwing them outside. "Nutter!" I shouted indignantly, "that'll never wo--"

Mary held up the oyster, opened a little at the front, and whisked it open with a quick flick of her knife. "You were saying?" she asked.

I didn't answer. I was too busy drenching the slimy thing in lemon and cracked black pepper, before oyster boy suffered a melancholy death down the warm pinkish throat of Becky. Hahahaaa.