Upon breaching the supermarket's threshold my initial thoughts were that I'd inadvertently meandered into a halfway home for autistic offenders. Each and every employee appeared to be stricken with an ailment which rendered them socially awkward - which isn't particularly conducive when wanting to locate a jar of free-range foie gras or 200 grams of Pont L'eveque. Such inquiries, I feared, would lead to the friendly Morrison's assistant collapsing in a befuddled heap on the shop-floor, or reaching for the nearest courgette and beating me to death in the fresh produce aisle.
So with this in mind, it was determined that I should shop with haste and keep my questions to an absolute minimum, lest I should succumb to a deranged member of the delicatessen team erratically wielding a fucking meat cleaver around the place.
My shopping list was a matter-of-fact affair, which simply read:
- Beer
- Food
I'd been so perturbed by the whole weekly shopping ordeal (something I haven't done in the U.K for some 11 years) and the threat of being assaulted by a shelf-stacker, that I marched vehemently to the alcohol section where I sort solace in the knowledge that a) I was surrounded by thousands of litres of premium intoxicants, and b) a large bottle of Jim Beam would surely trump a root vegetable should blows with a shop assistant come to pass.
Eventually I surmised that a brace of Pilsner Uquell should accompany my evening meal. Two bottles for £3 is exceptional value in these trying times.
Now to fill up the shopping trolley with a diverse range of proteins, cheeses, fresh fruit and vegetables and wholemeal products. Well we could do that, or we could implement our contingency plan which generally entails getting thoroughly vexed with the general public, buying a couple of tins of beef madras and leaving the fucking premises lickety-split.
Another successful day in old blighty...