Shop-ocalypse Now

"Call me neurotic, but I just can’t handle it..."
This is stolen from a Facebook rant which sums up many males' attitudes to modern supermarket shopping. Us, we love us some aisle action, but we feel his pain. See if you agree...

The rant in full:

"In Star Trek, there are some bad guys called The Borg. They’re an intelligent bunch of cyborgs that don’t have individual thought, instead, they think and act as a collective. They don’t usually attack unless provoked, so the crew from the Enterprise can move freely between them until they’re considered a threat. This doesn’t stop the crew creeping around the enemy ship, not wanting to disturb them.

This is how I feel when supermarket shopping. It is in this environment that other women really show their spots. Normally placid creatures discover a fierce confidence and purpose. There is no apparent idea of spatial awareness here; forty-something housewives with body-warmers and Ugg boots bounding in all directions, children weaving between trolleys, seemingly a whiskers length from impact. I’m surprised more serious accidents don’t happen.

Call me neurotic, but I just can’t handle it.

This is why, without fail, when we enter Sainsbury’s in Farnham, I always ask if it’s ok to sit in the Starbucks near the exit with a magazine while my wife does the hour-long weekly shop on her own. She replies a no, without fail; that’s hardly fair, she says. I can smell the rich aroma of coffee as soon as I’ve entered the store, but the FastTrack device is firmly placed in its holder in the trolley and I’m commited before I can pluck up the courage to escape.

It’s not that I’m not a modern, considerate husband, but I find the idea of tackling the many aisles of this gargantu-store really quite hellish. I have nothing to do but scan in each item with the hand-held scanner every few minutes. I don’t know where anything is. Its not that I haven’t been in this shop about 700 times, but the fact that there is no order in the layout of these shops, makes me reluctant to try and commit any of it to memory for fear of an aneurysm.

Another couple pass us, and I look up and catch the eye of the male companion of another woman intently sizing up two packets of identical salad packets. He looks perfectly calm and interested, but in the briefest of glances, I can see shame in his eyes. We’re not supposed to be here. We’re like racehorses who have somehow found ourselves pulling a cart round Central Park. In winter. We both cast our eyes to the floor and shuffle on.

My wife walks off to find something in the first aisle, leaving me with the trolley. I gasp, panicked and look around for shelter from the evil housewives with large metal cages with wheels and no regard for right of way. I shuffle into a corner by the weighing machine, next to the potatoes and pull the trolley close to me, out of harm’s way. Suddenly I’m standing in the most populated area of the aisle, two women making a bee-line for the potatoes, pushing their trolleys towards me as if I’m invisible; hoping I’ll move before their huge metal pain-bringers connect with bone. On of them wins, and reaches me first. I pull myself together and cast her a look. She looks up, and the lights are on, but this woman is shopping. She suddenly springs to life, pulling herself away from her trance and tuts in the direction of my trolley which is now in her way. I clearly don’t know the aisleway code.

So I move to another corner. There are some highlights to this nightmare. I find solace in the magazine and CD areas, spending as much time as possible with the games magazines that I’ve already read at work, scanned and pillaged for quotes. This wastes at least four aisles worth of progress through the shop, and we’re nearly at the beers, wines and spirits section, which means I can practically see the checkout. My mood lightens, and I regain my confidence, even managing a smile. The best thing about this whole experience though, is the FastTrack mechanism that allows us to pay without re-scanning everything, and it’s all over. As we leave the shop, the bitter winter air feels like freedom and I skip to the car in euphoric relief."

Right-thinking hero, or addleheaded Sainsburiphobe? Let us know below.