I’ve been really fancying chilli con carne for some reason and unfortunately the cupboards at home are as bare as the protective coating on my final nerve.  After adding Tabasco sauce to toast, crisps and mashed potato I realise that I’m going to have to bite the bullet and bring the weekly shop forward a day- I know, maverick behaviour.  Being the ever considerate wife I am, I decide that I will do the shopping and time it so that all hubby has to do is meet me at the check out and help me pack.
Husband hates food shopping with me.  This is because a month ago we argued over the merits of Welsh butter versus English, when he was off looking for a mango I told the store manager that husband was a stranger who’d followed me in from the street.  I also hide from him. You may ask how a fat bird with a trolley can do this is an open plan super market? The answer is… head for the tampons. He’ll never go there voluntarily.
Husband is on a somewhat odd shift pattern at the moment, and as such, to coincide with him finishing work, I have become a late night shopper.  For me, there used to be no greater pleasure than heading to Tescos after 10pm to find a store free from screaming kids and pensioners prodding the pork chops.  I find in recent months though, this is no longer the case.  The supermarkets are as busy at 10pm now as they would be on a Saturday morning after a half inch of snow.  It’s madness. This isn’t my biggest peeve though, not even close.  What really pisses me off about shopping in the late evening is the fact that you’re made to feel like you’ve walked in on a staff party and asked the cabaret act to help you find the tinned peas.
Tonight was no exception.  As I listened to Hardcore Bass Volume 4(while squeezing avocados)  I felt the familiar tingle that indicates that the protective film over my final nerve has dissipated.  I  imagine this to be how the ozone layer over Calcutta feels.  Continuing the multi cultural comparisons, the Mayan pyramid of fucking boxes between me and the kidney beans is what finally snaps me.  I no longer feel able to face anything as taxing as the weekly shop and so abandon my trolley in favour of a basket and revert to what i know best.  Plotting to break the husband.
With 14 minutes to spare I make myself busy picking up items with the gay abandon of Lindsey Lohan in a Jewellers.  I find a quiet spot (by the tampons) and begin to sabotage the barcodes on my items.
I spend the three minutes left watching to see which till is screeching ‘unexpected item in bagging area’ with the most frequency.
One minute remaining to marvel at the familiar sight of half of South Wales police heading for the Hustler’s Burger Fridge (if Husband does ever flip and stab me, I sincerely hope it’s in Llansamlet Tesco as it has the strongest police presence of anywhere I’ve ever been before, including Nottinghill Carnival.)   Husband rings to ask where I am:

‘Just heading to the til, love- would you mind if I leave you with the shopping and go sit in the car- my knee’s killing me’

‘No worries babe, see you in a second.’

I arrange our ‘bags for life’ onto the packing area and scan the scallops, lamb joint and bleach thus committing him to the transaction.  As he walks in, I head towards him, pointing at the til and grabbing the car keys on my way .

‘See you in five, husband.’

Of course I didn’t go straight to the car, I instead watched through the window opposite his til.  He’d scanned the second cucumber before he saw the three tubes of KY jelly, mansize box of Kleenex and Justin Bieber Teen Idol DVD.  By this time assistance was already on its way.
I wish I could tell you what was said between him and ‘Darren here-to-help’ but he’s not spoken to me since
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