Sandwich Of Doom

So I go into my favourite sandwich shop, for what I now know is the last time. I walk up to the chiller cabinet and pick up a lovely chicken, bacon and sweetcorn sandwich. Then I walk over to the tills. So far, so good.

Now the shop is quite empty, as it's 11.45 and most people are still at work. There are two women on the tills, with an empty till between them. One (on the right) is a gnarled old crone, the other is young, but a biffer.* Neither of them seem particularly attentive, so I walk to a point roughly equidistant from the pair of them and wait to see who cracks first.

The young biffer's reactions are about a second faster, and she picks up a bag in which she will pack my sandwich. But only a second faster. The old crone picks up her bag, but doesn't see Biffergirl pick up hers.

Obviously to me, Biffergirl has won the Bandage prize, so I walk towards her till. But it's not so obvious to Cronewoman.

CRONEWOMAN:
'Ey, what's wrong with me, lad?

BANDAGE:
Whhubble.

CRONEWOMAN:
Going to 'er? Oh, I see. (BROWNED OFF) Going for the young pretty one? Oh, yeah, age before beauty.

BANDAGE:
(BAFFLED BY CRONEWOMAN'S NON-SEQUITUR) Oh, no, no. (ATTEMPTS LAUGH, WHILE HANDING OVER TENNER) I can't win here, can I?

CRONEWOMAN STARES AT BANDAGE.

BANDAGE IS DISCOMFITED. LOOKS AT BIFFERGIRL, THEN BACK TO CRONEWOMAN.

BANDAGE:
(PROTESTING) I don't fancy her at all.

BIFFERGIRL FLINGS SANDWICH INTO BAG, SLAMS DOWN CHANGE AND STALKS OFF.

I wonder, can any of my readers beat this complete lack of ability to interact with the human race? I imagine Captain Mac could give me a run for my money.

*Not sure if 'biffer' is in common parlance outside Liverpool. Perhaps 'moose'?