In Vegas, I got asked for ID everywhere - pretty standard there, I understand. However, I haven't been asked in the UK for many years now.
Until three weeks ago. And since then, a further three times. That's four times in less than a month. In four different places.
Boy's pet theory is that my new knitted hat makes me look like an arty college type, which he thinks makes me look plausibly pre-25 (the age to be asked for ID). I suspect it might be more to do with rash of post-Vegas pimples rendering me similar to a spotty teenager. I have also noticed that all the askers-of-ID have been 60+ women, who might have rather rose-tinted spectacles when looking at younger girls - the 18 year olds at the till clearly don't think I'm their age, as they never ask.
The four asks have culminated in one outright refusal to serve. Well done to the Co-Op staff for having the courage of your convictions, despite also being under pressure from the bloke behind me, who actually offered to buy my alcohol for me. The remaining three relented under the weight of my disbelief as I variously declared myself to be closer to forty than thirty, shoved Doctor-titled American Express cards at them (of course, I don't carry any proper ID) and outlined how the purchase of Chablis at +£10 a bottle hardly matches the underage drinking demographic.
I wish I'd have known at 17 what I know now, when I repeatedly failed to successfully purchase booze. Act offended, give your age as something so outrageous that it couldn't be a lie, wear a wedding ring, offer to show them your wrinkles and flash a grown up bank card around. Oh, and don't buy White Lightning.
I know there are a few here who are routinely IDed. I have found this recent spate more embarrassing than flattering. It's so humiliating and it's left me shaking with anger each time (although I've remained polite at the till). How do you cope? I hope this goes away soon. Or I may have to lose my bobble hat.
