Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
Being a man I’m never going to admit I enjoy shopping.
But at least supermarkets like Tesco render the experience as pleasant as possible. Now I’ve fathomed the logic of the place, I find I can hurtle around picking my items and heading for the checkout in a reasonable amount of trice. All very efficient and organised. And, well, Man-like.
Yet at the same time I find it a trifle embarrassing. Even intimidating.
Pushing the pram
For a kick-off, those trolleys are a touch too pram-like. Not that I have any objection to driving a real pram, containing a real baby, you understand. I don’t have any inhibitions there.
But those wire contraptions, those skeletons of prams, make me feel rather as if I’m playing at mummies and daddies.
And worse, the size of my shopping reflects that I am a man alone. My purchases amount to no more than a pathetic handful, skulking away at one end of the gaping maw of the trolley.
I’ve tried using a hand-dangley basket instead, but ended up all sweaty with lugging the thing and leaving a trail of dropped items behind me as I went.
Just popped in for …
So I’m resigned to playing secret racing driver instead. As well as pretending this is just some additional shopping, a few items I forgot to get when I did the main buy.
And frequently loading up with stuff I don’t need on the excuse it’ll save effort next time. But in reality just to bulk up my few pennorth worth.
It doesn’t help much. Whenever I reach the checkout I am confronted by woman numero uno on the point of wheeling away a trolley typically crammed mountain high with carrier bags, two years supply of toilet rolls and a new double duvet.
Often there’s a toddler somewhere in the mix too.
And behind her the next customer, also female, who has already filled the entire conveyor belt bit with her version of whatever is essential for a group expedition to Everest
A fish out of water
Then comes me, hiding my pathetic bunch of requirements behind the little next-please fence.
Followed immediately by woman number three, complete with her own version of a year’s tribal requirements.
And beyond her an aisle frantic with yet more overburdened mums, desperately seeking a free checkout so they can rush back to everything else they’ve got lined up for the day.
If any situation was more designed to make a bloke feel out of place and inadequate I’ve never met it.
Hats off to them
Honestly I don’t know how these ladies cope. Yes, I know they’ve arrived in a car, and the trollies are easy to push, even loaded to the point the driver can’t see over the top.
But the sheer effort of filling the things with all that stuff, unloading it onto the checkout, reloading it and trundling it away, transferring it all to the car boot, then at the other end carrying it all indoors and packing it away – well, I’m filled with awe. No man could manage it, not all in one go. Or even two. That’s all I’ve got to say about that.
As for me, with my pathetic little two-bag purchase – I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if one day some chap displaying a security tag about his person taps me on the shoulder and tells me to stop wasting everyone’s time and vacate the premises toot sweet.
