Happy accident March 29, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
There’s not often much to write home – or here – about when it comes to the daily events that occur either in this flat or within a 500m radius, i.e. the shops. But yesterday, the Russian’s and my world was temporarily shaken by a supermarketing mishap.
I should have known the trip was going to go pear-shaped. I had to linger at the bottle-machine as there was a gaggle – well, OK, two – of children, I think siblings, struggling to cope with the insert-bottle-wait-a-sec-put-in-next-bottle-press-green-knob-get-voucher process. They were aggressively unprepossessing children. One, of indeterminate sex, was at an especially annoying age – 13, say – where it understood that it was annoying and it had become its life mission to annoy as much as possible. I’m not sure if this is an apocryphal embellishment on my part, but I’ve got a feeling there was even deliberate and unnecessary burping. There was definitely – no denying it – an unnatural hair colour. The younger child, and putative younger brother, was showing signs of preparing to display equal unprepossessingness within a matter of months.
“Nee-naw, nee-naw,” all of a sudden went the bottle-machine. The youngsters had managed to make the alarm go off. The alarm! The tannoy rang out for a member of staff to get to the machine ASAP. A harassed and annoyed-looking young lady appeared with an unnaturally large bunch of keys, did some fiddling, and made the siren stop. I shifted closer to the machine, showing the youngsters I was slightly bored of their display, all the time trying to transmit, with disparaging looks, that they shouldn’t be imbibing so much liquid sugar. They resumed their insertions. All seemed to be going to plan, but one bottle was being evasive. It kept popping back out. The unprepossessing child of indeterminate sex tried everything to get those last 15 cents. He/she turned the bottle over so that the barcode would be easier for the barcode-reader to read. But back out it popped. He/she then kissed the bottle, as a gambler might kiss his betting ticket, and tried again. “Nee-naw, nee-naw.” The youngish personified scowl reappeared. We all clearly blamed the youth of today for making the machine nee-naw twice. I could see disapproving looks from various German pensioners. I lingered further. The Russian looked on impatiently.
The younger of the unprepossessing children ushered me forwards for me to have a go instead. I grunted gratitude. Inserted my bottle. “Nee-naw, nee-naw.” The shame! The shame! The clanking scowl appeared again, looking daggers at the youngsters, but softened slightly when she realised it was me doing the hooliganising. She repaired the error, I got my voucher, and the Russian and I could at last get on our shopping way.
It was a major shoppery. Everything needed to be stocked up on. Our fridge looked as if it was part of a news report from some war-torn nation where the residents of a house had had to make a hasty escape. Not a sausage. The fates had conspired to make all the cleaning items end simultaneously. We needed the works. I even had the fun of grinding coffee-beans at the coffee-grinding machine (thankfully in full working order). We trawled our way heroically round, trolley groaning under the weight of comestibles. But the supermarket-design god rewarded us with the temptation of the wine-counter just before the checkout. What a good bit of design. We lingered here longer than elsewhere, wondering whether to go New World or stick with the frogs. Or what about the Italians or Spaniards? (I’m secretly always gagging for Spanish, but rarely get my way.) Out of Slavic solidarity, we cast a glance at the Bulgarians. The Hungarians, Greeks and Romanians were, it goes without saying, dismissed out of hand. “Hm, there seems to be a new lot of Chianti. Shall we go for it?” The Russian decisively put a bottle of the new Chianti in the trolley – having glanced at the price tag (which isn’t on the bottle, like in some suburban off-licence, but slid into that plasticky thing on the front of the shelf) – and rolled onwards. (He was paying. I caved into authority.)
We got to the till. “Fuck, only the horrible old bag’s on duty,” we exclaimed. “We can’t afford her thieving tactics AGAIN. And the unprepossessing children have got a year’s worth of Fanta to go on the conveyer. Fuck…” Thankfully, the nice, early middle-aged cashier dashed to her till at just that moment and we avoided the old bag with happy alacrity. The nice, early middle-aged cashier chatted away to us. Neither of us understood a word of her Berlin dialect, obv, but we played along and tittered here and there and articulated very clear hellos and goodbyes. We trundled on to the final stage of the shoppery. The Russian packed. I scanned the receipt, looking for signs of theft. “Milen’kii (darling), the wine cost * euros!” Twice as much as we’d thought, and twice as much as we’d normally pay. My internal organs leapt for joy, both that the Russian had been made to part with more money than he intended and at the thought of us having accidentally posh wine. The Russian resigned himself to defeat at the hands of incorrectly placed bits of plastic and, I’m guessing, noted the occasion in his shopping-incident arsenal for when I next dared raise the issue of how much something cost on a shoppery.
So, anyway, how was the twice-as-expensive-as-usual wine? Twice as good? Dunno. But certainly not bad. But the thing is, whatever it’s got in it has hit a spot. Both the Russian and I are OBSCENELY inundated with work and haven’t done anything festive for about 3 millennia. At least. And all of a sudden, at 8-something pm, the Russian pipes up, “Let’s go to the cinema.” I dashed to see what was on at the local Russian cinema. Some Georgian pants from the 80s. “Let’s go and see the film about the gay cowboys.” So we will. The second I’ve finished this post, and polished off the remainder of the twice-as-expensive-as-usual Chianti, it’s off to Bareback Mountain, as Berlin queens (or at least the ones I know, all hailing from the former Soviet Union) are so hilariously calling it. Anyway, I’m anticipating the film will be utter pus but GOING OUT ON THE TOWN. Imagine.
Purchase beyond your means, boys and girls. It’s the way forward.