Aisle Be Back…

Forgive the terrible pun in the title, but I think the weekly shopping trip has broken my brain.

Today, we visited a major supermarket chain which shall remain Tesco. NAMELESS! I meant…oh, sod it. Anyhoo, off we popped to the shops for a few bits and pieces. In and out job. No big deal. Balls.

First up, the trolley. Why the hell can you never pull out just one trolley?
“I’ve got one. Oh, two. Well i’ll just…hmm. They’re wedged together. They’re bloody welded! ONE! I WANT ONE! ONE! ONE! NOT TWO! WHY ARE THERE THREE NOW!? WHAT THE…AIIIEEEEE!”
The “AIIIEEEEE!” was the moment when they separated suddenly and I flew out in front of a car and get knocked through that bloody annoying whirring sign thingy.

You know those signs, right? With the moving adverts that change JUST before you manage to read the price of the item that, for once, you’ve seen on an advert and would actually like to sodding buy. So you wait. And you wait. And…you get it. Then you get sick of it and walk away and BURRRRRRRRR it changes! You spin round and…toothpaste? No, it was a bloody frying pan!

So, I give up and head inside, not knowing the horrors that await! Like the vegetable section. One courgette, that’s all I wanted. One. Sodding. Courgette.
Oh, there are nets of them with three or four but I don’t need three. Or four. I want one. One courgette. So I have to take…a bag.
The bags are hung in a wee dispenser box thing which says “Please take one bag”. I WOULD LOVE TO! I would dearly love to take only the single bag which I require. But I can’t.

After half an hour of frantic scrabbling, looking for all the world like a squirrel trying to open a bag of peanuts, I take of my right shoe, then my right sock, bung the courgette in the sock and fling it into the trolley in a fit of despair.

Up and down the aisles we go. Trolleys crash into me. Old people knock me from side to side as they shamble down the aisles like the beige undead that they are. Chittering, cackling imbeciles exclaim over cut price loaves and elbow me in the ribs until I cough up sections of lung.

But then, oh blessed day, we’re finished! We can go to the…OH JESUS CHRIST IN HEAVEN NO! THE SELF-SERVICE CHECKOUT!
I know it sounds like a brilliant idea. No dealing with the Serving Ogre(TM), generally not much of a queue. But what you do have to deal with is The Bleeping Soul Destroyer(TM).

The machine which will NOT recognise the barcode on only the most embarassing of items, so this “Sharon to self-service, problem with haemorrhoid cream” goes out over the tannoy.

The machine which is refuses to accept your perfectly good five pound note again and again until it devours it whole and, I swear, lets out a series of beeps which sound very much like a giggle.

Oh yes, I hate that little beeping git. But nothing will drive me so surely into a fit of absolute rage as this:

UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA!

WHY WEREN’T YOU EXPECTING IT, YOU DIGITAL DIMWIT?! YOU JUST SCANNED THE SODDING THING! YOU GAVE IT A BLOODY GOOD GO-OVER WITH THAT BLINKING RED EYE OF YOURS ON THE SIXTEEN ATTEMPTS IT TOOK TO GET YOU TO RECOGNISE THE BARCODE! WHAT’S SO BLOODY UNEXPECTED ABOUT A BAG OF POTATOES! YOU SELL POTATOES! I DIDN’T DROP A SEVERED HEAD INTO THE BAGGING AREA, DID I!? THAT, THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT OF A SHOCK BUT THIS?!

I was busily trying to pry the front off of the machine with a toy hammer which I grabbed from the front of a Bob The Builder comic when security asked me to leave. On the whole, I thought it was for the best.

Done and dusted.

A belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, folks. I’d have gotten to you sooner but the Yuletide season generally finds me locked away in “The Land That Broadband Forgot”.
Have a good one?

Doubtless you consumed approximately your own body weight in turkey, twice that amount in mince pies and enough alcohol to flood the Serengetti.
Presents were plentiful, I trust? Socks which are already missing partners, books which you’ve no intention of reading and good, noisy toys for the kids which sadly have everlasting batteries.

So it’s all done for another year, asides from the clear up.
The never-ending, soul-crushing clear up.
It can’t be done! CAN NOT BE DONE!

For a start, you can’t pack away the toys. Oh hells no. Because the minute you start the kids remember that particular toy that you’re packing away and it’s “THE ONLY THING I WANT TO PLAY WITH I PROMISE OH MY GOODNESS IT IS MY FAVOURITEST GIMME IT NOW!”.┬áSo you hand it over and start to tidy something else away but bugger me, THAT’S their bestest toy now.

Try to focus on something else, the washing up perhaps! Of course, it’s going to need another three days of soaking before the pudding is washing off of those plates and you’d be better of smashing that roasting dish because a sandblaster wouldn’t remove the goose fat.

OK. Wrapping paper. You can deal with that. It’s all bunged in bin bags and out for the…oh, there’s a bit under the couch.
Right, got that bit. Now it’s all bagged up and out for the bin men. Barring that ball of it tucked behind the tree. Damn. Well that can go in the bin and…what the hell is all this paper doing in the drawer!? KIDS?!

Fair enough, you’ll be finding bits of wrapping paper, gift tags and torn up bank notes for we…torn up bank notes? Buggeration, there WAS a card in the envelope?

The best thing to do is just build a fort out of the wreckage and hide away until next Christmas. Now, pass me that big box, it’s going to be my door.