How can I be a capable, competent, semi-educated, semi-upright woman and be writing about a supermarket?
Coz we all need supermarkets. We all go to them.
We all wander around with the small basket Vague Shopping and then crave a trolley because we are going to overspend.
When I go on Sunday nights, the dads are there struggling to fulfill the hand-scrawled list for lunch box fillers. Sometimes terse discussion takes place over the phone:
Well, I’m here in front of the snack section but I can’t see the nuts that have been cleansed by Evian streams … but in my trolley darls, I have everything else you asked for:
- snacking apples that can be eaten in four bites
- kiwi fruit forced to live berry size
- yoghurt suckies
- and a copy of The Penguins of Madagasgar
- and three packs of the ‘cards’
- a reader
- the fucking folder
- the tin
- another reader for the toddler who doesn’t collect the cards but doesn’t understand if they don’t get a snake call reader
- a hot water bottle from the Reduced Items section
- pair of bamboo jockeys 2 pack
- some old cheese rolls, down to $1.39*
- piss. A case of Asahi, and a Mission Estate varietal for SWiMBO**
- Eta Ripples. 3 for $5. 5 OneCard Points
- bar of Milkybar
- shaved ham
- shaving foam
- a copy of M2
- Prozac (20 OneCard points)
- hair filler
it’s all there at Countdown. As I write this, I am myself drinking the Pinot Noir I bought from my local. I used the Self Help counter, and never have I once got through that without attracting the sorrowful empathy of the supervisor who has to come and swipe me out of jammed hell each and every time.
I love you Countdown.
*this item will get stuck in the self help scanner
** She Who Must Be Obeyed