Ah, the weekly trip to the supermarket. How I relish it. Off I scamper, head filled with thoughts of all the lovely things I’m going to buy, the delicious dinner I have planned for that evening.
In I go, grab my basket and make my way to the veg aisle. And I am stopped dead in my tracks by a mothers’ meeting. They’re not deliberating between the iceberg or the little gem or even exchanging recommendations; they’re just blathering away to one another about well ... nothing in particular: last night’s Coronation Street and that Brenda from down the road.
They look positively annoyed when, with an ‘excuse me’ and a smile, I try to get past. I was polite – don’t glare at me! – and surely there are better places to catch up than in amongst the tomatoes in Lidl? They don’t so much attempt to move out of the way, rather lean back, and I tentatively squeeze past, put a bag of spinach in my basket and swiftly move on to the distinctly less hostile cured meat section.
My initial annoyance has all but disappeared by the time I make it to the bread when, lo and behold, some pikey shoves into me and grabs at a packet of crumpets with a neon ‘30% less!’ sticker slapped on the side. Not so much as a ‘sorry’, just glee at the bargain he’s bagged. I mean, I’m all for watching the pennies but selling decorum for less than 20 pence? I think he’s been robbed.
The rest of my mission goes fairly smoothly, bar being confronted by three small children tearing around the aisles shouting at one other. However, one glance in the direction of their harassed-looking mother and I’ve got to allow it. I’ve not got to take the little buggers home; she has.
I head to the checkout. The queue’s long but it’s creeping closer and closer towards the tills. As I wait patiently, minding my own business, the woman standing behind me gets a call on her mobile and, as everyone takes a baby step forward, she promptly kicks her basket along the floor and slams it right into my heels. Given that it’s a Sunday and I am therefore wearing flip-flops (don’t ask me to explain the reasoning behind this), it hurts. A lot. I turn and glare but she’s oblivious to my irritation and pain and, in the space of the next five minutes, proceeds to do it a further four times. Does she genuinely not realise my Achilles tendons are acting as a buffer for her shopping? Or does she give herself a point for each time she manages to strike?
At long last I reach a till. I hurriedly pay the cashier, throw my purchases into bags and hobble out and towards freedom. Sod the dinner I was dreaming of, all I want now is a large glass of wine. And to do my shopping online in future. Read more by Chess.
