Sniffing and Squeezing The Fruit and Vegetables

I had a rare opportunity to visit the supermarket after work last week, on the way to pick up the children from Auntie K's.

I don't often go to the supermarket and use online shopping. Less stressful but fairly boring as I end up ordering the same stuff every week.

I revelled in wandering round sniffing and squeezing the fruit and vegetables, looking at all the new products and committing them to memory for my next online shop.

I am an avid people watcher. In fact, avid doesn't quite cover it ... I LOVE watching people ... their behaviour, interaction, foibles, habits.

I wandered with my trolley and watched the frazzled lady with her three children hanging off the trolley arguing over a Fruit Shoot; The man with his meal for one and beer perusing the condom and lubricants shelf; The old couple looking at stain removers.

Old Lady - Pointing "Is it the same as that one?"

Old Man - "I don't know I haven't brought my reading glasses, I can't see what it says"

Old Lady - In loud whisper "Does it remove large areas of blood?"

The Old Man looked at his wife in horror and then at me, at which point I scurried off to peruse the cake aisle and see what else the 'meal for one man' had put in his basket.

Prosthetic appendages. a moustache and a trip to Asda

The husband went to a fancy dress party on Friday night. He went as a flasher. Luckily he didn’t have to use his own ‘props’ but a costume borrowed from a neighbour.

This is what it looked like but this is not, I repeat NOT, my husband.

Just for the record the pubic hair on the borrowed outfit looked more, well … afro than the ‘John Travolta’s hair implants’ style pubic hair on the picture.

We were not privy to his final look as we were on the way back from visiting Auntie K. I feel this was a HUGE blessing as I’m not sure I could have fielded the 4 year olds inevitable questions about her father’s new prosthetic appendage.

All was well until 3.30am when I was rudely awoken by my husband standing over me saying “It’s OK, it’s me, this is not a dream, please unzip me, I’m stuck”. Don’t be fooled into thinking I’m about to share a romantic interlude, the outfit zipped up the back.

Saturday morning arrived and husband was, not surprisingly, suffering the after effects of a night of flashing, too much alcohol and a vindaloo. The bedroom had the distinctive aroma of an alcohol soaked jalapeno.

I took the children to Chavsda, my endearing name for our nearest Asda. We needed provisions for a dinner party and I had left it too late for any online satisfaction. The clientele at our nearest Asda is eclectic to say the least. I avoid this particular store at all costs unless there is an emergency.

There is a window each day when the local alcoholics descend to purchase a Smart Price bottle of cider. Due to intoxication they stagger from aisle to aisle belching, arguing with themselves, scratching their arses and generally smelling. Unfortunately our arrival coincided with their arrival. This is reason #241 why shopping should always be done online.

We managed to get our shopping done without much incident and as we were about to leave the 4 year old decided she needed a wee.

We went to the toilets where there was a queue.

“What’s that?” the 4 year old exclaimed pointing wildly.

I didn’t need to look to know it wouldn’t be good, but look I did.

As I turned the other four women in the queue followed my gaze and the 4 year olds finger.

I was initially relieved that she wasn’t pointing at the lady behind me who had a moustache to rival Magnum PI.

The woman in front of me nearly choked in amusement and everyone looked back at me, waiting for my response.

Because the 4 year old is learning to read phonetically at school she began to spell out ‘r ... i ... b ... b ... e ... d’.

I was desperately hoping a cubicle would come free so I could thrust my daughter into it and away from the condom machine looming behind us.

Before she started on the word condom I told her that the machine sells packs of tissues. This explanation was accepted much to the sniggering of my fellow toilet dwellers.

I can’t help thinking that this will come back and bite me on the arse at some point in the future.

For the last few years my biggest worry on leaving the house has been whether I have packed sufficient provisions into an already overflowing nappy bag.

Now that worry has been replaced with needing to know every possible distraction technique and lie to get out of every awkward public situation.

This requires me to be alert at all times, which is ... difficult.

When did leaving the house become even more of a challenge than it was before?

A chip off the old block ...

It's my Dad's birthday today.

Happy Birthday Pops!

After he gave us his two penneth about concussion I asked my Dad to think of some more memories of days gone by.

I crossed my fingers, hoping he wouldn't remember another naked neighbour story.

It is with great relief that I give you 'The Perils Of Shopping With Children - Parts 1 and 2' by my Dad. Reading these has reaffirmed my belief that what comes around goes around!

Perils of shopping with children - Part 1

We are in the newsagents. You are about four years old, a picture of innocence in your pretty dress, blonde pigtails, white socks and shiny black shoes. I am the very proud father. Mr Fish, the newsagent, probably awash with fond memories of fatherhood smiles down at you, just visible above the counter, and we exchange pleasantries; the weather, children and the economy.

The conversation is difficult as Mr Fish has a cleft palette and requires a degree of patient interpretation.

In my peripheral vision I notice you are unusually quiet and very still like a predatory insect.

I look down and see a face of rapt concentration, your eyebrows are knitted and your lips are silently moving. With mounting anxiety and then dread it comes to me that you are mentally testing Mr Fish’s unfortunate nasal accent and that you may be about to give it a full trial run.

With as much good manners as possible I bring our chat to a quick close, grab you by the collar and make for the door, rudely pushing a few elderly customers and a birthday card display stand aside.

I fail to make the door.

“Whoy dus he spuk lak dat, duddy”? you ask in perfect mimicry of the unfortunate newsagent.

This is not asked in a small discrete whisper. As your mouth is four feet below my ears and you suspect I am a bit deaf the question is asked at full volume.

I turn as we leave and smile an apology at Mr Fish across the silent shop who smiles back with the sad look of someone resigned to this sort of innocent abuse by children.

Perils of shopping with children - Part 2

Earlier in your life we visited the bakers shop with strict written instructions from your mother about what we were to buy; a small shopping list reflecting the economic hardships of the time.

I know you were very young as you were attached to me by some sort of harness with a lead, presumably to prevent you running amok on the busy main road.

Reaching the head of the queue I handed the meagre list to the lady behind the glass display counter in the baker’s shop and as I waited was mesmerised by the machine that saws the loaves of bread into slices. That is if you want sliced bread, which happened to be the specification for the bread on the list.

The completed order is bagged and placed on the glass top of the tall display counter. I am waiting to be told how much to pay but notice the lady is staring down at one of the large cakes behind the glass.

“Is she trying to entice me to buy a cake as well as the bread and rolls”? I muse.

If she is she has another think coming, cakes are definitely not on the list.

No, I realise that she is actually trying to draw my attention to the deep grooves that have been ploughed across the pristine iced top of one of the cake on display. I look at the cake, then at you, who has all the fingers of a guilty hand in your mouth which is suspiciously rimmed with what looks like icing debris.

“Ah, I suppose I had better add the cake to the order”, I say to the lady behind the counter and wonder if I will have enough money.

Then, as we discuss in a joshing manner the problems of controlling young mischievous children I look down and watch with mounting horror as your hand again slips behind the glass front of the display counter and vandalises another, even more elaborate iced cake of even larger circumference.

We leave the shop and, watched through the window by the queue of entertained customers, I stagger up the street festooned with bags and towed by a small child in a harness trying desperately to keep her distance from her irate father.