Hell is other people.
If Harold had been in any doubt whatsoever, standing in the queue for a replacement Bloodberry would have confirmed his worst fears. He'd stood in lines for new phones before and had once made the gargantuan effort to get an iPhone6 (never again – he could have bought a mid-range desktop PC for the price) but nothing compared to the delay at the Bloodberry outlet.
Jasfoup nabbed a spot half way along the line of waiting customers, waving away the jeers and derision of those behind. “I'm more important.” He flashed an identity badge form a grey leather wallet which hush most of the vocal protests if not the grumbles. Harold happened to know it was a membership card for the Tufty Club though he hadn't seen one since the late seventies when he'd been a member. He suspected it had been his own.
“Can't we take a ticket or something?”
“We can take one, certainly.” Jasfoup pointed to a dispenser which had spewed a long reel of thank you for your custom papers onto the floor, “but nobody likes a ticket taker here. You'd just be showing your Englishness.”