Some, I imagine, are out to be out. A bit like me I suppose, though I always make for the centre with some item in mind, the problem is I lose whatever that was on the way or get there and realise it's too much trouble, on a day when shelves are being ransacked of all their goods as if war's been declared and where personal space will most certainly be violated with little or no apology.
You can barely move (safely) for the sea of people sometimes. Perhaps, no, I know I exaggerate, and yet still I enter these places and instantly feel my breath is being squeezed from me, from both sides of my person like an accordion, as if I were the voice box in the middle. Stretched and squeezed, stretched and squeezed. Hoo-ray and up she rises, hoo-ray and up she rises, hoo-ray and up she rises, early in the morning. Not early enough, judging by the number of people who were already here when I arrived.
Ahh, a new shop has opened. That must be it. Ooh free samples. No, give it sidelong glance and re-position your feet so they keep going forward. Forward when everyone else is leisurely coming your way. Carrying full bags, pushing prams or trying to hold the hands or arms of screaming children. Oh God, stick to the edges. Crawl if you have to. And keep your handbag zipped and close to your body. Watch out, up ahead, for other suddenly stopping bodies. Dodge, walk, dodge, dodge, walk. Free space, free space, walking...oops, toddler, just miss and resist the urge to ruffle hair, pat, or goofy grin at. Mum, Dad's seen the whole thing and done nothing. What is the etiquette these days? I don't think it's quite the done thing to say to the small person: well hello there... Best not. You're not Roald Dahl, nor as tall as the BFG and far too old to be Matilda.
I'm not even halfway to where I want to be. Will I get there? Ever? Push on, push on, you must, otherwise it will have been a useless adventure. Adventure, this? I need to get out more and not less if that's the case. But oh, how I long for my four walls already. Water, water. A few miserable crumbs that mice have left.
This feels like a quest I should never have gone on.
Quick, the tide is turning. Duck in that pocket of air, skirt the lifts, arghhh people! and grab that basket. The fun has only just begun. So clichéd but nonetheless true. Empty. Empty. Empty. Where's the food? What! no avocados, no carrots, no red peppers. Stop and stare, and hope another idea will come. Nope, all gone. One item I can be sure of – will be there and that I undoubtedly need - is milk, because I buy the non-dairy kind, so to that aisle I go, typically at the back of the store and where someone has parked their trolley and disappeared. Blast it! Stretch up and over, got it – one Rice Dream and Quinoa plunked in the basket (so upper crusty which I'll have you know I'm not) - and then to the basket (and cash) queue which seems to be frequented by customers with more, way more, than one item or one basketful. Arghhh! again. I feel pathetic with my single item and say as much to the girl when it's my turn to be served: I don't why I've got a basket, and (luckily) get a laugh in response.
Transaction done and out the automatic door, onto the centre's polished floors where I'll have to either carve a way through in reverse or take an early exit to the outdoor market. What's worse? With a Bag for Life dangling from a hand?
The decision I made that fateful Saturday is not worth recounting. None of it was satisfactory, none of that shopper's high, that others talk of but which continues to elude me. When in the week I might have a dance with an old gent or exchange pleasantries with a fellow, though more deserving (and usually retired), idler.
Picture credit: Lisbeth with Accordion, 1909, Carl Larsson
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
