Trapped

There was a fair bit of choice. And I had four pints of the exotically named and rather tasty Lindeboom in my belly. And my bloodstream. Hence Somerfield became stupendously confusing.

I was trying to persuade myself to be healthy while stood next to the chocolate muffins. Chocolate, nuts, that’s a fruit isn’t? I thought about asking the American couple next to me who were testing the bread for softness. But they appeared to be unfriendly. They had thin faces with bones and teeth and well it looked all a bit severe. And I wasn’t confident I could articulate it.

I couldn’t really justify £1.98 on chocolate muffins. Mainly because I couldn’t count my change. To do that would have required a degree of balance that as far as I could tell I had pissed into the blocked urinal along with what was left of the Lindeboom after it’s corrosive journey through my body.

So I sloped over to the cereal and the more roundly priced variety pack. Variety. Now that is interesting. I spent some time studying the variety and discovered that in fact it was not as various as it claimed. Two packs of Frosties and two packs of Coco Pops. And one box of something pretending not to be Coco Pops but that was Coco Pops. So out of 8 boxes 5 were not very various at all. This must be how God thought after thinking he made a multi-cultural world. Boil it all down and we’re all bloody Coco Pops.

Still, chocolate. And the health illusion of milk. Done deal.

Milk. I’ll be needing that won’t I? Hmmm, two pints. That should do it. Now to pick it up. Variety pack in one hand, bag hanging off the other shoulder. Something’s going to give.

I put it all down. Put the milk next to it. Then picked all three up in a bear hug. In retrospect, it probably looked mental.

So I go queue and the queue is quite long. So the spot I join is opposite the magazines and there’s two girls on the front of Zoo with pretty faces and breasts the size of shopping bags. Not just normal shopping bags but those monstrous bags for life. Except bags for life don’t have any plastic anymore and those girl’s boobs, well, they were about as natural as Kelly Brook acting.

And the person in front of me in the queue is a woman and the person behind me is a woman and they both look it me as if I am a pervert.

It’s a problem. Male on his own, slightly drunk, clutching a variety pack and a two-pint bottle of milk at 10.30pm and standing next to a couple of blondes with their baps out on the front of a magazine.

It didn’t look good for me. They were positively begging me to pick up the magazine so they could tut. I swear the one behind me tutted anyway, just in case I took it. Sexist that is. They don’t have to contend with naked men with surgically enhanced cocks staring at them in a queue.

Luckily, the staff at Somerfield are very efficient and I soon found myself at the till where, in putting down my items, I managed to spill change all over the counter. Which was great. The check out guy just stared at me, justifiably, as I scavenged my coins back, helplessly trying to put my non-existent finger nails under the coins to elevate them from the shiny flat service. I sacrificed a penny. It just wasn’t worth it.

And then off I went. Back to an empty flat. My variety pack in hand.

I don’t think I’ll go back to that Somerfield. You know, because.