Trolley Life

[Unpublished]


I knew it was going to be one of those days when the soft drinks display collapsed. Karen and I had just entered the foyer of Longfellows supermarket, coming face to face with the mountain of two-litre bottles, when a section of the display tumbled away from the rest and popped and fizzed all over the floor, much to the astonishment of both shoppers and colleagues. Yes, it was going to be one of those days all right.
We stood beside a band of fellow onlookers, as you do when there's been a car accident or there's a fight in the street. Colleagues looked on also, until one of them seized the initiative by calling to someone else, who in turn called to another, who then called to a further colleague, passing the responsibility in the form of a verbal daisy chain. Soon a couple of under-enthusiastic assistants arrived with buckets and mops and solemn expressions, obviously the ones with the shortest straws, who began to clear up the mess.
"Have you seen that?" Karen said, pointing to the remaining bottles. "Americanade. I've never heard of that before."
On closer inspection I discovered that the product was indeed called Americanade, and was available in three flavours; blueberry, root beer and bubble gum. Whatever will they think of next?
"It must be something new," I said.
"Shall we try some?"
I was annoyed. "Do you realise you're falling into the trap? These goods are deliberately displayed here in the foyer to entice customers into buying them." I glanced at the price, which was unmistakeably marker-penned on to a large chalk board. "And look at the price; 49p. An obvious bargain."
"Exactly! So let's try some."
I wasn't going to win the argument. I also became convinced that the accident had been arranged to bring even more attention to the Americanade product. Karen asked me which I preferred and I told her I didn't mind, each of them probably tasted the same, like distilled dishwater or something equally hideous. She selected root beer, and I winced.
"I think we ought to get a basket," I suggested.
The speakers dotted around the ceiling were blaring out a version of Wonderful Tonight, which I thought was atrocious, much preferring Clapton's original. Much to my dismay the basket cradles were empty, and I started to wonder if things would get any worse before the day was done. Looking around I observed an abandoned pile of them beside the first checkout, and approached accordingly. Typically, a woman with half a trolley of goods and no concern for her fellow shoppers was going through the ten-items-or-less checkout, followed by a string of people in single file with tired faces and the genuine amount of items in their possession. I forced a smile as I endeavoured to fight my way past the uncaring woman, stooping to grab my desired basket, then banging my head as I got up, cursing under my breath. It would have been easier to dive into the middle of a rugby scrum to retrieve the oddly-shaped ball they seem so fond of.
"Got one!" I said triumphantly upon returning to my wife's side, my face red and my head hurting owing to my encounter with the checkout.
Isn't it weird how supermarkets always place their fruit and vegetable section so that it's the first thing you see when you walk in there? It's as though they are secretly urging and willing people to become health-conscious freaks by purchasing fresh produce. It doesn't really affect me. Well, not always anyway.
"These peaches look good," said Karen, as she dared to handle the merchandise. "I could just murder one."
I inspected the wares on offer, and sprang back in amazement. "Thirty five pence each! That's seven shillings!" Without revealing our exact ages, Karen and I belong to the generation that remembers those happy pre-decimalization days, and with great affection.
Needless to say we ended up with peaches, plus apples, plus bananas, which happen to be my favourites, my thinking being that if she is allowed to buy what she wants then why can't I? I ushered her away from the fruit and vegetables before she spied some other forbidden fruit. The store's ploy had been successful, we would be transformed into health nuts before we could say 'Granny Smith'.
Now Karen and I are definitely not vegetarians, therefore we wandered into the meat department without any hint of guilt or shame, eyeing the shelves filled with the remains of dead farm animals and poultry, without even thinking that at one time these creatures were living and breathing just as we were at that moment in time.
"Fancy a chicken for tea?" I asked my spouse.
Karen's eyes scoured the stock. "That's a good idea, Phil. Look! Chickens have been reduced."
I followed her gaze, and discovered her observation to be correct. Chickens were reduced to £2.39 for a medium size, ideal for the two of us. I almost licked my lips at the thought of a tasty chicken meal. Karen chose one and dropped it into the basket I was holding, which by this time was somewhat overflowing already with fruit and root beer Americanade.
"I think we need a trolley," I suggested.
Karen gave me one of her icy stares which served as an unspoken command to do what was necessary, so after leaving her with the goods I immediately set off back into the foyer to grab a trolley. Next to the Americanade display was a badly-cleaned-up pool of blueberry, root beer and bubble gum flavoured drink, which proved to be somewhat sticky underfoot, and a yellow sign that read CLEANING IN PROGRESS, which was a blatant untruth because the so-called cleaning had already been undertaken, or rather had been attempted.
Eventually I reached the trolley bay, and I nearly howled with rage at the top of my voice. It was empty.
After regaining my composure I surveyed the car park, and spotted a train of about twenty trolleys all attached together way off in the distance. As I approached the makeshift concertina I noticed a misty vapour rising up from behind some bushes, as if someone was sending smoke signals to all and sundry, advising them not to enter the supermarket under any circumstances. Dismissing the unearthly notion that something was afire, I investigated, and found two porters with cigarettes in hand crouching behind the shrubbery. I didn't complain, as they were much bigger than me. Instead I detached one of the trolleys, after much struggling I might add, and pushed it back into the store.
Finding Karen was a Herculean task but I located her in the end. She was perusing the foreign foods aisle, in particular the sauces, namely the balti, jalfrezi, masala, etc. I must admit I'm partial to a bit of the old Indian magic, the old spicy stuff.
"Have you seen this, Phil?" she asked me, as I transferred the shopping from the basket to the newly acquired trolley. "These sauces are reduced to clear."
She was right, the proof being a barker, black in colour with white lettering, informing the customers that the items in question were indeed reduced to clear.
"59p each? That's not bad." Even I realized that was a bargain, and not to be missed. "We've always got some chicken left, how about a curry?"
Karen was all for it, and just for good measure she snatched up two, a balti and a korma, and tossed them into the trolley. At least there would be some degree of satisfaction from our nightmare trip to Longfellows.
As we proceeded along the main centre aisle the dreadful music stopped, much to my relief, but was then replaced by a gruff male voice which bore as much charisma as a pregnant buffalo.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gents," said the voice, "this is Arthur, your Longfellows greeter." I instantly remembered him; the middle-aged nonentity in the blue blazer who stood in the foyer delivering enforced smiles to everyone who entered the store, shoplifters included. "Why not treat yourself to some Longfellows crisps, available in four different flavours. And remember, if you buy one packet you get another one absolutely free. Thank you."
Did you hear that? Absolutely free, the man said. How can something be absolutely free? It's either free, or it isn't free, there is no degree of freedom in between. I was ready to tear my hair out when suddenly we reached the wines and spirits department. I nearly swooned, I can tell you. It was my turn to make some decisions about the shopping.
BUY TWO GET ONE FREE, said the sign above the stack of Skol 12-packs. An impressive display indeed, I thought. The only problem was there was no price on show, so I hadn't a clue how much the packs actually cost. As Karen studied the Bacardi Breezers, I halted a colleague who was passing by.
"How much are these?" I asked him.
He gave me a wicked scowl, then showed me his teeth, just to be friendly. "I'll find out for you." Then he walked off.
I waited, drumming my fingers on the Skol arrangement. I watched two shoppers chatting merrily in the middle of an aisle, trolleys overflowing with goods that could feed a Third World family for about six months. They were completely blocking everyone's path, but did they care? I'll leave you to guess the answer to that one.
Minutes later a female assistant arrived. "Can I help you?" She was non-smiling, and seemed as if all the troubles of the world were upon her shoulders.
"How much is this Skol?"
I wondered what had happened to the other bloke as she walked around the display searching in vain for a point of sale. "I'll find out for you."
A feeling of deja vu overwhelmed me as she toddled off in the direction of Heaven knows where. Not wishing to trouble any further colleagues into passing the buck, I decided to take a chance and just buy the stuff irrespective of the cost, and I bundled three packs into the trolley before joining Karen.
"What about this, Phil?" she said, as she gazed up at a large cardboard sign. "These wines are any two for five pounds, and they are all £2.99 each, so you're saving, aren't you?" She was right again. "Shall we get some?"
You can guess the rest.
Try to imagine this; loaves at 99p for two, a reduction on washing powder, a linksave on coffee, buy two bags of sugar and save 25p, eggs marked down due to their approaching sell by date, a multisave on washing up liquid, a free aerosol of fly killer with every two air fresheners bought, fresh doughnuts reduced from 99p to 69p, corn flakes with 33% extra free, thick and creamy yogurts 8 for the price of 6. And that's just to name a few! I anticipated a hernia as I pushed the trolley to the checkouts.
Waiting in line in such places requires the utmost patience, and unfortunately the majority of customers do not possess that particular trait. An obese woman in front of us insisted on slowly and deliberately packing each item into carrier bags, as if she were working to some kind of prearranged instruction. Her face was as melancholy as that of a Death Row inmate approaching his hour of execution. Seemingly as an afterthought she produced a fistful of coupons and money off vouchers that would have made a miser extremely proud. The couple behind us groaned loudly and cursed, not under their breaths I might add. Their trolley was half-filled with large tins of dog food, and an image of an angry bulldog formed in my mind, warning me not to antagonise the pair of them. Come to think of it, they both actually resembled a bulldog.
At last the morose woman drifted off, counting every penny of change she had received, as though secretly willing there to be some error so that she could return and complain. Karen and I plonked our goods on to the moving counter, and I began to play my private game in which I attempted to guess how much it would all come to, a game I never seemed to win. We tossed them directly back into the trolley, not wishing to hold up Mr and Mrs Bulldog and incur their wrath.
"£66.24," said the checkout operator in a sullen tone, and I mentally muttered an expletive. Karen was nonchalant.
"We'll have to use your card," I told her. "Mine's at home in my jacket."
Karen gave me one of her fierce stares. "You're joking! Mine's in my purse, and my purse is at home."
I'm not one to demonstrate destructive behaviour but at that moment I felt like demolishing everything that dared to block my path. A torrid rage brewed up inside me, culminating in a severe twitching of the eyebrows and a frown so gruesome it could turn the entire population to stone.
"I don't believe it!"
"That'll be £66.24," the girl repeated, like an answering machine recording.
"All right, all right!" I said, thrusting my hands into my pockets in the forlorn hope that somehow I might discover the exact amount of £66.24 in there. Instead I produced a pound coin. I felt about two feet tall.
"We'll have to leave the shopping, I'm afraid," Karen explained to the girl, apparently showing a hell of a lot more restraint than I was. "We've forgotten our debit cards. Sorry about that."
The operator's expression didn't change, and I wondered whether the age of the mechanical android worker had already arrived.
"But I have a pound," I declared triumphantly, spotting the hostile demeanour of the bulldog man. It was so ferocious I didn't intend hanging around there any longer. We left the store, having taken advantage of the two loaves for 99p offer. After all, that was all we intended to buy in the first place, as we were completely out of bread. I was glad to get away from that hellish place, that den of iniquity, that God-forsaken nightmare of a store. I felt utterly foolish, so much so that I was dreading beginning my new role as general store manager the following day.