Dr Socks

I bought some socks. An everyday event that I assumed I could pursue without an inquisition, but this was not to be. First, “Would you like to join our loyalty club? We offer a 10% discount when you have spent $x in x months.” I politely declined. I proceeded to pay for the socks with some cash I happened to have.  I’m quietly amused to think that I have cleverly escaped giving any of my personal details away for the loyalty club. After all, it’s only a pair of socks. I don’t need to belong to a sock club. The transaction was complete, or so I thought. “Would you like a receipt?” “Yes”, and I instantly realise the misstep. The cashier continues,  “I need your email address”” Why?”… so I can email you the receipt. It’s a trap, but I don’t want to hold things up, so I recite my email address. “Your name?…So that’s Mrs, Miss, or Ms?” I bristle .This was now a step too far.  I can’t imagine what my marital status has to do with purchasing socks. Why on earth does my intimate and personal relationship with a man have any place in the discussion about a receipt for a pair of socks?  If I were a man would they ask if I had a wife? Nope, I’m guessing not. I grumpily respond,” It’s Doctor!” Hah, I snookered them. I was inordinately proud. My colleague piped up, “Why do you need to be called Doctor, it’s hardly relevant to this situation is it?” Sigh.