Life’s full of wonder, packed with mysteries and marvels of the universe. Scientists have uncovered so many, yet for each discovery, the questions of life, the universe, and everything, still expand and grow exponentially, simply to fill the deep, dark uncharted reaches of the unknown...
Virtually all my life I’ve been going to Sainsbury’s - so how come I still (aged 40) manage to get lost in it, most weeks?
My Mum tells the story of how I panicked once when I heard my name called out over the tannoy. I was looking at the big TVs and she’d lost me. I don’t really remember it, and I certainly don’t recall running to the checkouts as fast as my ‘little legs’ could carry me when I heard my name... which is weird because I was 26 at the time.
Joke. Though that did actually happen! I could have been 5; my Mum would know, but she’s in Australia. And Sainsbury’s wasn’t even called Sainsbury’s then - it had a much better name, which anyone over the age of 30 who lives here (or grew up here) will tell you with a nostalgic glint.
Anyway, tonight’s confusion was me looking for ginger beer, which is entirely not where you’d expect it. Then I completely forgot which aisle I was in, went round the corner and got bamboozled by the tea... which seemed to be in the wrong place altogether! What is going on? Before long, I got myself together and found myself asking a pretty shop assistant about the difference between squeezy Marmite and original glass-jar Marmite.
“My friend told me that if I lay it on its side, it’s easier to get the last bit of Marmite out...” I said, enthusiastically, “But with the squeezy stuff, you need to be some sort of Mr Muscle to get it all at the end, even with scissors, and that’s messy.”
I thought that was funny. She looked at me blankly and then pointed me towards where the cleaning products and the polishes were. I smiled, sighed, and said thanks.
That reminds me! After my spoon-fed salad in Waitrose yesterday, I picked up a new jar of marmalade from Waitrose (I move in all the right circles, me). While I was standing there marvelling at all the middle class marmalades with their gingham-cloth lids and swirly writing, an old man tapped me on the shoulder.
“Scuse me, son,” he said, politely. “Could you open this for me.” He thrust a jar of Robertson’s jam into my hand. Without thinking I said, “Certainly!” and set about twisting off the lid. It popped satisfyingly.
“There you go, enjoy!” I said.
It was only afterwards that I wondered whether he’d gone round the rest of the shop eating it straight out of the jar. Of course, he probably just knew it would be a struggle to open when he got it home. That made me feel glad to have helped, and a little sad to think that strength so often abandons older people so cruelly, and leaves only arthritis behind. One day that could be me. Though I kind of hope not.
So anyway, after 35 years I’m still getting lost in supermarkets, confusing attractive shelf-stackers, and possibly aiding and abetting elderly marmalade thieves.
Life really is full of wonder sometimes.
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