Swissbarry: Off My Trolley

[Swissbarry]

I find French supermarket checkouts a major source of stress, second only to Charles Aznavoice, TV adverts for Ocean Finance, and the word "gusset".

 

I’m sure I’m not the only one who seethes inwardly – and sometimes outwardly – when stuck behind someone at the ‘10 items or less’ checkout who has 11 items or more. What possesses these people? Are they mad, or just evil? And why do they always get just in front of me? And why am I the only one to grass them up to the check-out girl? And why does the check-out girl then LET THEM GET AWAY WITH IT? And why do the other people in the queue then stare at me when I loudly count out the items as they take them from their basket, as though I were the crazy one? Eh? Eh? One chap in front of me in Leclerc actually offered the excuse that his six bottles of water should count as only one item because they were all fastened together. Hah! Pathetic! In another life I want to come back as a checkout girl with a big club!

Almost as infuriating are the people who, having waited in front of me for an hour and three quarters for their turn to arrive, then get a shock when it does. Only when every single item has been rung through the till and carefully packaged into cellophane bags, do they remember that they will have to pay, and start a panic-filled search for their wallet or purse. And after finally locating the said wallet or purse they then proceed to try to accumulate the precise amount to hand to the cashier. And because these people are mad and evil, it follows that they cannot count, and so it takes them another twelve minutes to assemble exactly 87 miserable centimes in order to avoid giving the cashier a 50 euro note for a bill of 49 euro 87centimes. And meanwhile I am hopping in agony from one foot to another, clenching my fists and trying hard not to scream.

Then there are the cerebrally challenged customers who find they have forgotten to weigh their fruit or vegetables, and have to scuttle off to the scales while I moan gently to myself.

Supermarket shopping shouldn’t be like this. If only people would be organised and thoughtful, like me, the whole thing could be a pleasant experience for everyone. When my wife first decided that I should do the weekly shop, I planned it like a military exercise. First, I toured the supermarket (SuperU) row by row, noting down which of our regular purchases could be located in each row. I then turned this to a computer-generated list showing all the aisles in order, and underneath each aisle a list of items to be found in it. Armed with this list, I arrived for my first shopping venture full of confidence. I had even brought a clipboard which I managed eventually to fasten to the trolley, and although it stuck out at the side at an odd angle I could still read it providing I leaned well to my right. Inevitably, this arrangement led to a few difficulties at first, including an almost head-on collision with a rather large gentleman with no sense of humour, but I soon got the hang of it and, leaning heavily to the right, propelled my trolley to Aisle 1.

There, sure enough, lay the tomatoes we needed, closely followed by the lettuce and – right on cue – the apples. My system was surely vindicated, and as I sped past other shoppers I felt a mounting excitement. On to Aisle 2, and with hardly a pause I plucked from the shelves some toothpaste, a pack of toilet rolls and a loofah. We didn’t actually need the loofah; I’d been aiming for a pumice stone but my hand slipped, and I didn’t want to lose the considerable trolley speed I’d built up.

In Aisle 3 a security guard gave me a long look as I stared at my list and said in what I now realise was an overly loud and triumphant voice “Straight on to Aisle 4!”

As it turned out, Aisle 6 was my undoing. By now I was virtually running along with my trolley, impervious to the sarcastic comments and startled cries of other shoppers, and as I reached the jars of Baxters jam, exactly where I’d anticipated them, I reached out a nonchalant hand as I sped past. But suddenly, a Dutch child emerged from nowhere and jumped right under my trolley wheels. I knew he was Dutch because he said something like “Ahhgharcjchkowowaadjdjdjschkl” as the jar of Baxters strawberry jam exploded on his forehead.

I’ll say one thing about Baxters jam: it certainly spreads well. The Dutch boy, all the contents of my trolley and a large section of Aisle 6 were covered in what looked horribly like blood. People gasped; someone even screamed. Somewhat painfully (because by now I’d been leaning over to my right for about twenty minutes) I straightened up, summoned all my dignity, wiped a blob of strawberry jam from my eyebrow, and, abandoning both the trolley and the Dutch youth, strode purposefully towards the checkouts. Without a backward glance I marched confidently through the ‘10 items or less’ checkout, out through the automatic doors, and – breaking into a sprint – reached the safety of my car.

Since then, I’ve always shopped at Carrefour.

[moon]

You swine.......... I was that boy.....looking for my chocolaadensnaken.........I cannot bear the sight or smell of strawberries any more...