Supermarket sweep November 24, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
I’m a man of routine. And the November routine is not one to be envied. It’s all darkness, darkness, darkness. My fault, of course, for being a night-owl, but at times like this I would love to be a regular guy, up with the lark and sucking up every ray available from 8 till 4. But I’m not. By the time I’m ready for the day to begin, have abluted, have tried (and failed) to talk the Russian into some wrongness, have done a good five hours of blog-surfing and work-ignoring, I barely make it to the supermarket before closing time when we decide that – oh, go on then – we WILL – surprise, surprise – have wine with dinner after all.
Crime has come to Pankow – German for Ruislip – and the Russian recently told me with great excitement that our local Edeka was held up. Imagine! In Ruislip! So we’ve decided to stop doing huge shopperies and, as we used to do when we had excellent markets on hand in St. Petersburg, go shopping every day in the hope that we might get a piece of the action. At 7.30pm.
But there’s a price to pay for this routine. Apart from never having witnessed a hold-up – perhaps criminals are early risers – my metronomic regularity coincides with the metronomic regularity of Radio Edeka, which has, presumably, only bought the rights to play four songs over and over.
Today’s shoppery was meant to be strictly wine only. Straight in, whizz straight to the last aisle, wine in trolley and back to my old lady on till 1. But my autism and decidely low-tech internal computer refuse to let me take such a revolutionary short-cut. No, it was up and down all the aisles, including the cat-food one. I rolled lugubriously down the fruit-&-veg aisle, worried that folk would think I was awfully scummy as I made it to the end of it without an item darkening my trolley’s door. To punish me for my unhealthy lifestyle, I was forced to endure Whitney wailing, “And I-ee-I-ee-I will always love you-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou,” all the while. I tried in vain to turn my trolley in a south-westerly direction, but the wheels jammed fast and insisted I show extreme restraint as I went down the sweeties aisle, wondering throughout if ANYONE had ever bought those sweets in the shape of a violin with Mozart’s mug on the box.
To my pleasure and, thanks to drink-induced Alzheimer’s, surprise, Whitney was replaced with, “If you’re going to San Francisco, doo-be doo, be sure to wear…” I lingered lovingly at the powdered soups, hoping I might see a hint of criminal activity and singing along. “Cor blimey,” I thought. “I wonder if that revamped version of The Farm’s “Altogether Now”, reworked as part of a Challenge Anneka special to see if she could find them all queuing for opening time at Liverpool pubs on a Tuesday morning will come next.” And sure enough it did. I bought myself a Pot Noodle in their honour.
Thankfully, my quest was almost at an end. By the time I’d selected the evening’s tipple and communed with my favourite till-lady, I was only just lucky enough to catch the opening strains of, “Ooh, what a feeli-i-in’; we’ll be dancin’ on the ceilin’.” I bought myself some fags to celebrate.