I enter the Dean Street Tesco after work with the following shopping list in my head:
Packet of rocket
Have I got linguine or do I just buy some more incase? Will that make it three half used packets in my cupboard or no packets at all? NB first world problem
One packet of linguine
Sun Dried tomatoes
Small bottle of white wine, probably a Sauvignon Blanc – whatevers on offer so long as it’s not German or Chilean (not a racist just not keen on their wine. Does that make me a wacist? Idiot.)
I still laugh out loud at my own joke whilst staring at the Krispy Kremes like a nutter. You are not on my brain list Krispy Kremes why do you always call me to you like some sugary siren singing to me through the misty ocean?! I’m not the supermarket seafarer you want, not today. I manage by shear strength of will to walk on to the big fridges. I re-focus by doing a quick calculation in my head that tends to go something like this – to be bothered to cook or not to be bothered to cook. Coming up with the latter I sack off the list almost entirely and head straight for the wine aisle. I have decided to now spend my evening getting quietly pissed at home alone whilst watching Grand Designs like the prematurely old, functioning alcoholic I actually am. Hurray!
Now, this is dangerous because being a woman and alone in a supermarket with your only item being a bottle of wine conjures all kinds of sad images to your fellow shoppers (much like the one I described above if you’re not actually the one sprawled on the couch drinking the delicious wine and getting a lady boner over Kevin McCloud). What can only follow are snatched looks of pity or even vague disgust (if you’re feeling particularly paranoid) but have no fear I have found a way around this: I like to enjoy an imaginary conversation with a “friend” (I call them Audrey) while I’m in the queue to check out. We mainly talk about whether or not they need me to pick up anything else for dinner while I’m at said shop etc. See what I did? By having that little chat to my imaginary (but who also happens to be brilliant and dashing in my head) friend I gently explained to my relieved fellow shoppers that I was going to partake in the only appropriate form of mid week drinking – that which is accompanied by people and food not strangers on the telly living in houses you’ll never afford with food that has a microwave skin.
Safely at the self-checkout, my last hurdle is the potential disapproving look from the male Asian (I’m painting a picture again I’m not being a racist or wacist haha sorry) shop assistant as he approves my age i.e. that I look over twenty five. As he comes over and takes a look at me I smile sweetly whilst going for my drivers license. He grins back like he’s holding in a fart, “So are you over twenty five?” I reply “Yes here’s my drivers-“ but before I can finish he bursts into high pitched sniggers. My lips are so pinched I think I’m going to get cramp when he manages to say “Let me see some I.D” before launching into another round of sniggering. I suffer an immediate and devastating sense of humour failure, and walk out of the shop leaving the delicious wine on the self-service looking orphaned and alone. I get home and drink green tea instead, which by the way tastes like rotting sea weed and makes Kevin McCloud about as sexy as a dish cloth. Wait, oh yes, thank god for the emergency vodka lurking in the freezer, eff you assistant man! Eff you green good-for-me tea! All I need now is the Ribena and I have myself a partay for one! Don’t cry Mum. Don’t cry.