"Those items tell a story, surely!" said the friendly Welshman in the queue behind me as l laid them onto the conveyor belt. I smiled politely and then tried to imagine what kind of story this avuncular customer might have been imagining. Perhaps he wondered whether I like a sense of adventure, but not before I've done the dishes. Or maybe, I live in a cold flat where the only way to survive the harsh winter is to wrap myself in lambs' wool and cashmere while simultaneously baking cookies.
In actuality, the only story it really tells is that I am horribly disorganised and end up hopping to the shop for things I really should have remembered the last time I was there with a trolley full of meat and pasta.
I didn't say anything witty to the Welshman in reply. I just said, "I suppose they do, yes!" and then refused to elaborate. He himself seemed to be stocking up on Strongbow and cereal, not to mention a copy of Heat magazine and a box of light bulbs. I decided quickly that it would have been rude to conjur up the image of him weeping into his cider-soaked cornflakes, alone in the dark.
"Each to their own eh," he said, laughing.
I couldn't have agreed more.
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