I gave him a quizzical
But he wasn't finished there.
No, when he came to relieve me of my money, he spotted the bottle of pyrethrum I'd picked up - I use it on the patio to get rid of the sandflies mostly - and he said 'Ah, chemical woman.' As if I'd just confirmed all his assumptions about being precious.
I said, 'Okaaaaaay," in a tone that was supposed to suggest that I'd rather we didn't speak further.
But he just grinned and said, 'bye chemical girl.' And handed me back my card.
Its not been the only difficulty I've had communicating with the human race this week.
Yesterday I had an appointment at a beauty salon for a person to go at my nether regions with hot wax and a pair of tweezers. Yes, and pay them for the privilege.
Alas, in a moment of utter brainlessness I picked the Wrong Time to make this appointment.
Upon arriving at the salon I told the receptionist that I had to cancel that part of my appointment due to it being The Wrong Time.
"Wha?" she said.
"The Wrong Time," I said, slightly louder.
"Wha?" she squinted at me.
"I've got my PERIOD," I snap. Just as every hairdryer in the place was switched off.