Visiting the supermarket is one of those tiresome, weekly chores we all must endure in order to avoid starving to death. Unless you choose to do your grocery shopping online, which admittedly has its benefits – not having to vacate the sofa, as well as its drawbacks – trusting an unknown Asda/Tesco employee to pick out vegetables that aren't already covered in fur, and to know that normal pasta is not an acceptable substitute for wheat-free.
But, perhaps by finding food shopping an altogether irritating, tedious task, I am in the minority. It would certainly seem that way if my last few trips to the supermarket are anything to go by. Who knew that the foundations for a fun-packed day for the entire family could be built on running out of eggs and milk? Cheaper than the cinema, a trip to the supermarket with every household member in tow appears to have become the weekend activity of choice for unimaginative parents who can't think of any better way to spend their Saturdays.
I go on the occasional supermarket trip with Chris and come out needing a dose of Valium and a couple of relationship counselling sessions – and we don't even have children. Or live together. A typical food shop with Chris usually goes something like this: he makes a list, consisting mostly of tinned peaches, Snickers bars and various packets of bizarre grains and pulses that Runner's World magazine has promised will turn him into an Olympic athlete; he puts said items into the trolley, before proceeding to stride in a methodical, purposeful fashion up and down every single aisle in the entire store. Why? 'In case I need something that I've forgotten to put on the list.' From the feminine hygiene section? Right. Not that I'm in any particular hurry to get to the checkout, where Chris spends most of the process wringing his hands and barking at me for bagging the groceries up in the wrong order.
In short, I prefer going shopping alone. It's just unfortunate that other people don't seem to share the same attitude. At the weekends, my local supermarket undergoes an abrupt transformation into an unmanned crèche, because, while most parents seem willing to bring their herd of offspring to the supermarket, they're surprisingly reluctant to take responsibility for them once they've arrived.
On my last visit, for example, I rounded a corner with my trolley and almost mowed down a stray, sticky-fingered infant who was pawing casually through the birthday cards, no obvious parental unit in sight. And then there was the chubby young boy who barged past me, arms laden with sweets, apparently on a lone mission to clear out the entire confectionary aisle.
After an hour or so of allowing their children to run amok, some parents try, and fail, to assert a little belated authority over them. 'That's enough! Stop asking for things, because you're not having anything!' bellowed one father to his whining daughter, with all the impact of shouting at a brick wall. Still, at least he gave it a shot. Unlike the many parents with no backbone who forget how to form the word 'no' around their children. 'Why don't you get these sweeties instead, darling? Then you can afford three packets with your pocket money,' cooed one spineless mother, in a pathetic effort to placate her snivelling son.
And then it's time to pay. A relatively simple part of the supermarket experience, you may think. But evidently not for the large-and-in-charge family of four I encountered on Saturday. As they slogged along the aisle at a pace that would inconvenience most snails, I found myself jerking from side to side behind them, searching for a gap, a crack of light even between their colossal forms, that I might slip through in a sly endeavour to overtake. In fact, all I succeeded in doing was knocking a bunch of gift cards off a shelf and adding to the hold up. Apruptly(ish), they halted in confusion. 'Oh! You have to do it yourself on these ones,' dad wheezed, pointing at the self-checkouts as though they were an entirely new phenomenon that haven't been around for years. This gave way to much incoherent muttering, before they all hefted themselves back off the way they'd just come.
When I finally made it into the self-checkout queue, I was second in line. Or so I thought. However, it seemed the lady and gentleman who joined the queue after me had other ideas. They decided to form their own line, adjacent to mine. In their minds, they were waiting for the checkouts on the right, and we were waiting for those on the left. Well, actually, no. It doesn't work like that. I was here first, therefore I will be smoothing into the first available booth thank you very much. This bizarre behaviour can often be witnessed at cashpoints too, and in toilets with two entrances. Look out for it.
But the trouble doesn't end there. Along with having to scan every item at least three times, and wait patiently until the forgetful checkout realises that actually it was expecting the 'unexpected item in the bagging area', there are also self-serving neighbours to contend with. As I went to plonk my basket down, I noticed the woman on the next checkout was using mine as some kind of overflow area for her handbag. I gingerly lifted the straps and was gently pushing it to one side when she turned on me. 'You are touching my bag!' she screeched, snatching it up as though I were about to make off with it. I felt like saying, 'Calm down love, stained canvas isn't my style,' but settled for the classic eye roll and pitying shake of the head instead.
My online shopping is being delivered tomorrow. I figured if it means avoiding tripping over the young, getting stuck behind the slow and generally enduring the presence of the public, receiving a couple of furry courgettes is one small price I'm more than willing to pay.
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