I’m in a store which sells tasteful, Scandinavian gifts and homeware. Essential items like beard oil, boxes of salted liquorice, and decorative wooden elephants costing over one thousand pounds.
In this tranquil shop, full of tranquil people, browsing for tranquil things, my klazomania kicks in.
“Lemon!” I shout. “Lemon! Lemon! Lemon!”
The shouting really does jar with the store’s ambience. But, hey, people with Tourette’s need to buy beard oil too, and so I continue to meander through the rows of goods that I cannot afford.
It’s not long before I notice my shadow: a security man drawn to my citrusy speech. He watches me, approaches me, staying near but not that near, and never actually deigning to talk.
Voluntarily, I throw him an inane grin and, involuntarily, another “Lemon!”
I get it. He wants to figure out whether I am a shoplifter, or some strange citrus-based troublemaker. But if I wanted to pinch anything from this store (which – if I had no moral compass – I totally would, everything here is so goddam tasteful), I would be quiet and not loud about the process.
It’s just common sense that people with Tourette’s make for bad shoplifters, though. Especially with my Tourette’s, because as well as shouting out “lemon!” at random intervals, I am also prone to saying “yoink!” whenever I pick up something.
On my way out, I want to tell the security man I am a klazomaniac, not a kleptomaniac. But I don’t, not only because klazomania is, some might argue, one of English’s more uncommon words, but also because I don’t want to offend any thieves in the vicinity.
So, I exit the shop, liquorice-less, beard oil-less, and elephant-less, leaving behind a wake of bemusement and amusement, and I’m on to the next store, an afternoon of loud lemons stretching out before me.