My own little minimarket jihad

There's a minimarket at the foot of the apartment building where I stay in Ramallah. It opens early and closes late so it's always busy with customers. There's an old man whom I can only guess is the proprietor perennially at the tills with a long furrowed brow across his face. Usually it's because he's looking at some paper work. What this also means is that customers often have to wait a long time before getting his attention. As a result, there's a bit of a law of the jungle procedure to purchasing your items, not entirely dissimilar to buying a drink at a busy pub. I've routinely been pushed away by intimidating mothers who look like they should be playing rugby. So I've taken to dumping my money on the counter and walking out. I haven't been shouted at yet.