Never before have I felt more like a plastic bag.
I feel I want a plastic bag every time I enter the supermarket now, and see the signs everywhere, screaming
REMEMBER YOUR BAGS
I imagine it’s being said in a chipper yet patronising voice.
By the time you’ve spotted the sign, you’re already halfway through the turnstiles and there’s a queue of people behind you. Other times, you’ve managed to turn around and fight the unnatural spikes out of the way, and traipse what seems like 1500 metres back to the car to get the bags.
You know there’s bags you can buy here, though, as you absent-mindlessly grab a basket, even though (given you’ve forgotten the bags) you’re a no-list graze-shopper who at some point will have to go back through the turnstile and get a trolley.
And off you go into a wonderland of plastic-covered everything, and you wonder at what point in civilisation did everything become about…plastic? We’re doomed with it and without it and you are absolutely doomed if you turn up to Pak’nSave on a day where they’ve run out of saleable plastic bags.
I was there yesterday. A young couple, wide-eyed with innocence and the anticipation of being able to bag-up their 2000 metric tonnes of groceries, were met with the concrete wall of
“We’re out of bags.”
They stood there, bereft, silent. There was nothing to say. It was like death. There was nothing to negotiate, try as you might.
“But the groceries.”
said one of them. The cashier just stared, we all stared at the empty hooks where the bags should be. Certainly there were boxes, but at a time like this, boxes may as well be your own hands.
The devastation and enormity of the situation was so great, I thought of offering up my small alms of four plastic bags, recently purchased at Countdown because I’d forgotten them that day, but not today I hadn’t.
The Countdown plastic bags were so notoriously good, one day I overheard a lady ask for lots of them because they made amazing bin liners.
But back to our couple.
Off they went, slowly past the checkout area towards the sliding doors, to what fate we’ll never truly know. An archway of flames awaited them in the car park and they walked into the incendiary tunnel.
Locusts swarmed overhead as storm clouds gathered just above the bit where you can get the cheap fuel.
I imagined them picking up one or two items and putting them in the boot without bags, then having to get some bags from the house at the other end and bag up the groceries but in their own driveway like some sort of reverse weird torture ritual.
Every time I have a human interaction from now on, I’m going to say “Remember Your Bags”.
“Hi mum, I need a shower.”
“Remember your bags.”
“Hi, it’s Jason from Fisher Funds here. Have you thought about changing your KiwiSaver plan?”
“I haven’t got time because I need to remember my bags.”
“What’s for dinner?”
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