An incident in a supermarket
A true story. Yesterday, shortly before 6.00pm, I set off to drive into my local town in order to buy some food provisions that (I had been informed) were absolutely essential if I wished to enjoy the full majesty of my much-anticipated evening meal.
My shop of choice for this expedition was Waitrose, simply because the evening rush hour was in full swing and it was the nearest supermarket to home.
It all began so well. There was a parking space available almost opposite the store, I bought myself 30 minutes of parking time and dashed inside. There were only four items on my shopping list (Stilton, Buttermilk, Walnuts and Bread) – that is, bar anything I might spot and/or buy for myself on my way round with one of the small shopping trollies.
My shop was all over in less than fifteen minutes, albeit that there remained a residual problem. I could find only one (284 ml) tub of buttermilk on the shelves and I had been asked to buy 800ml – I duly checked with a member of staff who went backstage and returned five minutes later to admit the single tub I’d picked up had been the only one left in the store.
Thus the shopping trip was going to be a failure by definition. But no matter – that’s not the subject of my post today.
On my way around the aisles of said Waitrose several times by chance I had come across a lady aged about 40 (I could be wrong here because, since I passed the age of 50 myself, I have increasingly difficulty in estimating the age of ladies to within the nearest ten to fifteen years).
I’m not using stereotypes glibly here, but let me suggest she was one of those well-to-do, middle-aged, middle-aged Mums – who take care over their appearance and drip with an overwhelming sense of self-entitlement – that are a familiar sight in the upmarket parts of suburban London.
One of those encounters was when she joined the aisle I was in (dairy products) pushing a similar trolley to me and almost brushed me aside in order to ‘park’ in front of the cream tubs and then immediately spent at least two minutes contemplating which of them she wished to purchase, thereby totally denying me access to the same shelves – if she had been me, of course, I would have just picked my choice from the shelf and moved on to let other shoppers make their choices.
Sometime later I made my way to one of the check-out counters. Ironically I found myself standing directly behind said lady in the three-person queue I’d elected to join. None of us were buying very much, it has to be said, which was a prime motivation for me in joining that particular queue.
Let me describe her further.
Quite big blonde-rinsed hair, appearance well taken care of (as I had hinted earlier), wearing a white blouse, smart jewellery, blue jeans and ‘wooden block’ high heels. Her legs were somewhat chunky, so the tightness of her jeans, combined with the visual effect of her ‘wooden block’ heeled shoes, somehow reminded me of a female character – possibly a pig – in an animated cartoon film.
Time passed as the gentleman at the front of the queue, even older than myself, took his to bag up his purchases, find his wallet and then eventually pay. Finally he disappeared.
Next up was my shopping lady.
She also took her time. I was completely relaxed. I had been out for a quick shop and in fifteen minutes or so would be back home. What was there to get het up about?
I’ll tell you.
Once my lady had progressed past the till itself, she left her trolley standing behind her as she placed her purchases into a cheap Waitrose bag that she had bought for the purpose. She then went through the motions of paying by credit card.
Still nothing to concern anyone.
And then, having paid, she just picked up her bag of shopping from the counter and – without looking back or making any other move or gesture whatsoever – simply walked the ten or so yards to the Waitrose side-exit door directly opposite … and departed out into the street, presumably on her way straight back to her £3.5 million house, her merchant banker husband, her 2.4 children now attending highly expensive private schools, her au pair and her labradoodle-cross puppy.
Leaving her empty trolley in my way as I sought to move forward in order to have my turn at the check-out counter.
I exchanged quizzical eyebrow-raises with the teenage girl on check-out duty and said something about “the inconsiderateness of some people” before (as said lady should of course have done) moving the offending trolley towards a line of similar small trollies along the far wall.
Honestly!
Some people in this world have such a high opinion of themselves that they spare no thought at all towards civic duty, other people or the general good. They don’t know they’re born. I shall have no sympathy at all for this well-to-do-lady when the Revolution comes and her whole swanky, luxurious world disintegrates around her ankles (or should I say ‘cankles’?).
What’s the deadline date for joining the Labour Party and voting for Comrade Corbyn in the leadership election?
