COLUMNS such as this are a dime a dozen these days.
Most are written by female journalists over 40 who have more regard for their fragile egos than their readers. Satire is usually the name of the game, except when they miss the mark and impose nausea upon the masses by examining every minute of their existence as they hurtle through their mid-life crisis.
Family, friends, and the stresses of modern-day living are the staple diet of weekend newspaper columnists, so too is reminiscing, which is a nice way of saying they long for the good old days when they could squeeze into a pair of Staggers. The sad fact they can’t and never will again occasionally results in hundreds of column centimetres of vitriol.
I’d like to be different . . . to offer something refreshing to read on a Saturday morning; something interesting, perhaps insightful or go all out and write an inspiring essay on how to solve the GFC.
Alas, I too am an over 40 female journo who would dearly love to be able to strut down the Hargreaves Mall in a pair of size 10 Staggers, who hasn’t had an original thought since the last century and can barely solve the daily Target Word.
Now that your expectations have been sufficiently lowered, here’s this week’s dose of nausea, with a little vitriol thrown in for good measure. And if you’re reading this in the checkout queue of a major supermarket in town, can I suggest you ask one of the dozens of customers ahead of you to pass a packet of Quick-Eze, because you could be there awhile.
I was doing the familiar desperate-dinner-dash through this popular establishment on Thursday night and quite frankly, the place was a circus with shoppers and their trolleys and baskets backed up like cars on the Westgate during peak hour.
There were only a handful of aisles open and two people serving on the express lanes (clearly an advisory term only, not a guarantee).
Patience may be a virtue, but patience wasn’t going to feed my two hungry monsters who were given Chupa Chups as an entree.
We queued for more than 15 minutes. This, as any parent will tell you, is an eternity when for the umpteenth time I pried my four-year-old’s hands off the strategically-placed display of chocolate Easter goodies.
You don’t have to be Einstein to realise that 6pm is supermarket prime-time, so where were all the checkout chicks and roosters?
This was the question that many frazzled shoppers were uttering out loud, very loud. Have they already become victims of the GFC or was this just a case of a rostering oversight?
Whatever the reason, there was the potential for trolley rage erupting.
My trolley wasn’t even half full, damn it. I reckon, if you’re doing the hard yards in a queue for this length of time, you’d want to be stocking up for a cataclysmic event, not a dozen or so pantry basics and a BBQ chook.
I must confess that I begrudged the woman with the fully laden trolley who had wisely taken full advantage of her shopping tour of duty, while the young couple behind me were obviously aghast with my lollipop meal replacement plan. It seems they were going to dine on lentils, pita bread and low-fat yoghurt. Wait till they have kids of their own. Revenge is sweet, like a Chupa Chup.
Surveying the contents of other people’s carts is a great way to pass the time in these situations.
Catwoman, two aisles over, was loaded up with cans of pet food and very little else. She might be going hungry, but not her moggies.
Then there was a stoic-looking elderly couple with their neatly arranged trolley dominated by a selection of home-brand goodies. What were they doing out at this time of the evening, I thought. Couldn’t they shop at a more civilised hour?
Maybe they’d been playing lawn bowls. The aisle next to mine was moving a bit faster (isn’t that always the way). What struck me as shocking wasn’t the speedier service, rather the ratio of frozen and packaged foods to fresh produce being piled on to the revolving black counter. Boxes of pies, chips, pizza, cheesecake and even packs of frozen vegies outnumbered the small bags of grapes and lettuce 10 to one. Surely a heart attack in the making, if this was a normal shop.
One male shopper had obviously assessed the situation and ditched his plans, and was making his way to the express queue with a pack of loo paper under his arm and a look of desperation on his face. Maybe he’ll be back today to finish what he started.
Others took the opposite approach and were rounding the supermarket for a second time to make the most of the delay.
There was a definite tension in the air as more shoppers joined the snaking queues.
Late-comers or late-eaters, they would have to wait their turn like everyone else. And when my turn at the checkout finally came, any pent-up frustration was quickly replaced with sympathy for the shell-shocked young woman serving on the register.
I was getting out; she was trapped with no respite in sight.
There’s no real moral to this tale, just a mental note to shop smarter in future and to spare a thought for the shop assistant staffing the scanner.
PS to fellow Gen Xers: the iconic ‘70s Stagger Jeans brand is apparently making a fashion comeback. Pure jeanious! I feel another diet column coming on.
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