I do, honestly.
In Wales, you’re charged 5p for a flimsy slice of super-thin polythene (could be white or red/blue stripes), guaranteed to spill your groceries/loo-roll/hi-juice or worse onto any pavement right outside the supermarket.
And not in a good rom-com kinda way, avocados and mangoes (of course) rolling artfully towards a hunky-chunky-monkey of a man, just ready to pick up your tumbling food and a lot more besides. Whay hey.
So I am a bag lady. ‘Wanna bag?’ is met with a smug , ‘Tch, brought my own, fumble, fumble, dontcha know.’ Carefully selected from the Orla Kiely range at Tesco and independent book-stalls in New York. Natch.
Anyway, I am armed and prepared for Serious Supermarket Shopping to subsidise my meagre Ocado order. I can’t resist a sneeky peek at the sensational offers I’m missing out on
Sad salads, miserable mince, tacky tacos and cheap cereals. Two for one on coffee. Buy one get one free on curry sauce. Eww. Snagging the last of the asparagus bundles, I head to the check-out.
And here is where the fun starts. My hands refuse to play ball. The check-out-meister whizzes through my shopping with obscene speed. Everything is flying everywhere. ‘Having a nice weekend?’ he asks, smirking, flinging my solitary can of beans westward, way beyond my reach.
I have long given up asking The Teenager to accompany me. Apparently he would rather wear a skirt to school than walk next to me, trolley trundling behind. When the price is barked at me, I take a step back, fumble with cash/card and finish packing. Picking up my cucumber from the floor as gracefully as I can.
This is why I shop on the internet. I have a succession of lovely men knocking my door, holding out parcels. Heaven. All I have to do is laugh off the jokes that my name is spookily similar to an American singer/actress. Never heard that one before, lol. Lol.
On a happier note, I have just cooked a rather marvelous chicken meal for Sunday dinner. The Teenager responded by telling me he would prefer to starve. A likely story. Apparently he would rather have a pie. Which we have had forever until he asked for a cooked chicken Sunday dinner.
It’s me. Isn’t it?