Well, after the 2 ‘Trading Standards’ posts here and here, I went to do my food shop at Tesco with some trepidation. I know it was a different Tesco, but still – I have a very, very distinctive surname, and they might compare notes. (And God help me when I inevitably apply for a school-friendly shelf-stacking job there, after grassing them up to Trading Standards).
I only had 20 mins to do my standard 60 min shop, so poor Mini Minx had to do without our customary singing love-in* and be whizzed around the aisles.
* I cannot stand shopping, for anything. It’s not that I hate to part with money, no. I just get so indecisive, and by the time I decide on a purchase I’ve gotten bored or fidgety and want to move on. And being stuck in huge supermarkets makes me feel trapped. So I bent over nose-to-nose with Mini Minx (or whichever daughter is in the chariot driving seat) and exchange back and forth coos. We chat, sing songs, blow kisses, rub noses, rub chins, generally have some fun. And as I drift down the aisle I grab what I need almost as an afterthought. Sure beats doing proper shopping!
You know how much I hate shopping trolleys? Well, it was the same old story today – of the 5 left that Mini could fit into, 3 were broken, one was covered in seagull poo and the other was wonky. I say wonky. What I mean is it wouldn’t go in a straight line. At all. More a drunken parabola. Except I didn’t notice for the first 2 aisles because I was in such a rush to be finished and pick up Maxi and Midi on time that I don’t think the (backwards and squinty) wheels touched the floor.
I cursed and hauled and curved my way to a check-out. I suppose one advantage of hateful trolleys is that they sure cut your shopping down to grabbing the absolute essentials only in order to be finished with this torture! An efficient check-out assistant started scanning and packing my stuff in my own bags for me as I threw my shopping on the conveyor. Perhaps she saw me kick one of the wheels. Perhaps I said aloud my murderous thoughts about the trolley. I don’t know. She suddenly asked if the trolley was ok. “No. Wonky. Ouchy back.” I pouted. She waggled a finger at the gofer lady (supervisor? I don’t know – the 12 year old in the wireless headset and baseball cap who flits from check-out to check-out) and asked for another trolley to be brought immediately. I protested that it was no bother, I was nearly done. “Oh no dear, think of your poor back!” she insisted. A shiny trolley was whisked to my side, my packed shopping moved over for me, the remainder packed and stacked for me as I moved Mini over.
What a service! What an on-the-ball, observant, kind-hearted lady! I swear I skipped to the car with a lighter heart. I might even have whistled.
Finally, that reminds me:
Q. What do you call a donkey with 3 legs?
A. A wonky.