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Shopping and fucking April 15, 2006

Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
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…but without the fucking.

Actually, a blogger saved my life. This blog now appears to do nothing but link to Berlin Diary (haven’t worked out how to link from e-mail yet. Tried it yesterday and BSE broke out all over the place. I’ll tweak and fine-tune later) but if it will be beautiful and such a useful life-guide, then blow me if I won’t link. Had a mosey over to Berlin Diary, then, and saw he was blogging about shopping. What, on Easter Saturday? You mean the shops are open? Obviously I’d missed the boat on Thursday and resigned myself for the festivities to a fridge which, while bulging with uninteresting items in the minuscule freezer-compartment – a whole (disease-free, we assume) chuck and some frozen fish – was a yawning chasm when it came to the in-betweeny section. OK, maybe a limp and mouldy old carrot, half a pepper and three drops of UHT milk. Still, we’d survive. But the shops are open, it turns out. What better way to avoid work, get a gram of fresh air into my pleuritic lungs, and purchase alcohol than go to my shop, which provides a blogging story one trip in three?

Only a minor shoppery today. The Russian had refused to come. I dashed to herald the exciting news about the shops. He was naked and chose to cover his genitalia with an item of clothing when I burst in on him in the bathroom. I could understand him covering his genitalia if a mere acquaintance, or even a relative, had walked in on him in the bathroom, but he must be aware that I am, not surprisingly, after a hundred years of concubinage, very intimately acquainted with his genitalia indeed. (Though less and less so with the draining of the sands, alas.) Anyway, perhaps from the shame at having his genitalia made an exhibit of, he refused to join me on the jaunt. He gave me the plastic ersatz euro for the trolley and off I went alone, whistling as I went. (I can’t whistle.)

I mooched up and down the aisles, eyes always alert for an exciting bargain and the hint of a good-looking man in the environs. No, this was a minor shoppery. No exciting purchases. And I hadn’t been paid yesterday, so wasn’t feeling falsely rich and doing things like buying caviar. No, a dreary minimum that could be carried by my own two fair hands that would get us through to Tuesday. Liquids, for weight reasons, had to be kept to a minimum. A single paltry bottle of (I hope delicious) Spanish red, a single paltry carton of apple juice, a single paltry flagon – sorry, running out of receptacle vocab – of mineral water. I trundled to the checkout. The old woman who had been wandering around with a young homosexual had been abandoned by him when it came to the hard work of putting the things on the conveyor. Fair-weather friend. I didn’t know if he was her grandson or social worker. But just as I was thinking of working out the grammar of offering to help, and just as she was nearing the end of her struggle, the homosexual appeared with a number of grooming products and stuck them on her bill. Hm, so social worker after all. She accepted it all in good spirits. She’d survived the war and had probably been deported from the Sudeten or Silesia at the end of it all and lived in a refugee camp for a couple of years. A freeloading homosexual wasn’t going to dent her spirits.

Once I’d finished battling with the conveyor and had dragged back my items to stop them getting mixed up with the slower old lady’s for the final time, the cashier and I got busy with our transaction. She can only be described as a working class gal. God had not been ungenerous with his endowment. If it wasn’t for the ludicrous make-up and obscene hair-colour, she could have been called pretty. Not nice, by any stretch of the imagination, but at least pretty. She bleeped away. I packed away. Then the working class gal made a noise resembling speech. I remembered with horror, yet again, that I lived in Germany. I’d hoped it was her holding up the spring onions to shout out, “Oi, Helga, ‘ow much is the fuckin’ onions?”, except in German, of course. But, I realised, to my horror, she was articulating at me. I hadn’t understood a word, it goes without saying. I leered plaintively. She was holding the flagon of mineral water in her hand and leering back, full of venom and hatred and with already thin lips pursed to virtual extinction. “Eene Kiste oder eene Flasche?” By the time I got round to understanding this was Berlinois for “crate or bottle?”, my mind had already wandered off to Magritte and other metaphysical questions. Why would she ask if this was a crate or a bottle, when it was clearly a bottle? OK, a flagon. She harried and hated further. “Eene Kiste oder eene Flasche?” “Oh, am I buying just a bottle or have I got a whole crateload of water on the trolley’s basement, you mean, you wicked witch?” I thought. “Just a bottle.” I indicated that she hadn’t noticed my voucher for the deposit bottles and fumbled slowly to get my card out when the time came to pay up. She cackled something about Schöne Feiertage and we bade our farewells.

I finished my packing, noted the presence of a 7-or-8-out-of-10 man at another till and prepared to trundle back into the real world, my thoughts already back on work, Madonna, Magritte, debts, genitalia, the Russian, we-need-to-buy-some-picture-frames and the like. A familiar mass loomed into view. The Russian, panting frantically, red-eyed from months of not having left the computer, coming from the opposite direction than if he’d been travelling between our flat and the supermarket (I suppose he could have got lost, but seeing as it consists of one left-turn, it’s unlikely, and there has never been any sighting of life in the direction he was coming from. Too odd), genitalia incident behind him, was clearly intent on shopping. We then had shopping stichomythia. “Tomatoes?” “No.” “Apple juice?” “Yes.” “Chocolate eggs?” “Fuck, no.” “Wine?” “Obv.”

Maybe he just doesn’t like being separated from the plastic ersatz euro. Maybe it’s his talisman. In any case, he grabbed it back and disappeared off into the shop. Relay-shopping. It’s probably the latest thing…

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Comments»

1. Joe - April 18, 2006

thats a bad word

2. daggi - April 19, 2006

Joe doesn’t look much like Mary Whitehouse, does he?

3. BiB - April 19, 2006

Flipping blogger. I normally receive comments via e-mail but this one seems to have been censored, amusingly. Too odd.

Well, Joe, I don’t set out to offend, but, you know, sometimes a guy’s just gotta say fuck. But I don’t say it lightly, you’ll be pleased – I hope – to hear.


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