Don’t Panic It’s
Christmas
Here I go.
I can do this, so what if I forgot my list? How hard can it be to stock up for
Christmas?
“Are you
sure you can fit my shopping in the car as well as your own?” asks Margo, my
ultra organised neighbour. Not however, organised enough to learn to drive.
“Of
course,” I smile; after all I have got a seven-seater estate car – with the
seats folded down. I briefly wonder how much shopping she’s likely to need for
two people.
“We can
always come back round with another trolley if we can’t fit it all in one,” she
says, looking doubtfully into the depths of her trolley.
I smile, or
was it a grimace? No no, it was definitely a smile. Here we go. As we go round
the shop I can feel the tension levels building; so much for peace and good
will, more like ‘will’ get the last ‘piece’ of food on the shelves. Everyone
has the same determined look on their faces; this has to be the shop to end all
shops, the one where everyone buys everything they could possibly need over the
festive season; along with a good many things which are destined to be thrown
away in a future cupboard clear out. I blame the shops; how can they close for
twenty four hours just when we need them most? It’s a shocking neglect of their
customers, who’ve now grown used to twenty four hour shopping. What if we have
unexpected visitors, and we’ve run out of the very thing that they want to eat?
I wonder who these inconsiderate people are, who turn up out of the blue making
impossible demands; and think that maybe my life would be a lot easier if I
became one myself, instead of fretting about them descending upon me.
“Isn’t
Christmas exciting Mummy!” I hear a small child say to her mother, her face lit
up as the bright lights reflect off the tinsel which she has wrapped around
herself like a glittery boa. Yes, Christmas is supposed to be exciting, but as
I look around I can’t see much sign of it, I grab a piece of tinsel off a shelf
and wrap it around my neck. The little girl points and smiles; everyone else
just stares. I don’t think I can be entirely blamed for what happened next, if
the shelves had been stacked better, and not booby trapped to make everything
fall off as innocent trolleys go by, I never would have thought of setting off
party poppers in the middle of the supermarket – I do hope I don’t set off a
security alert! Some serious looking men in uniforms are stood staring at me,
Margo is flapping about trying to distance herself from me and several children
in trolleys are trying to escape, to come and join in.
I try to
get my mind back onto the task of shopping; I manage to put several things in
my trolley before Margo snatches one out.
“You can’t
buy that! Didn’t you see the documentary last night?”
I look at her blankly.
“It’s full
of that dangerous chemical that kills rats.” She takes several other things out
of my trolley, tutting disapprovingly. “You really should read the small
print.”
I head for
the fresh produce, there’s no printing at all on that; unless it’s already
bagged, and then it says 5 on it, no matter how many items the bag contains.
“5 a day,”
explains Margo, as if addressing a small child. “You must have heard of that.”
I wonder if
a chocolate orange would count as one of my 5; but probably not. I wonder how
many pieces of produce I should buy in order for six people to have 5 a day for
a week; and where I could keep it all cool enough not to become something that
resembles a science experiment. I begin to panic buy, anything to get out of
here. When did shopping become so complicated?
“I noticed
you haven’t got any of these,” says Margo thrusting a pack of little plastic
bottles at me, which look just like the bottles of cat milk I buy for the
kittens.
“They’re
full of good bacteria,” she assures me patiently. “You should drink one every
day.”
I have a mental image of bacteria sorting themselves into
goodies and baddies and having little battles in my intestines, and I wonder
how many more calories I will have consumed by the time I get through all the
things I must have everyday – and what time I will have to get up each day, in
order to get through it all.
“It’s a
good thing I came shopping with you isn’t it?” says Margo smugly. I just smile
in defeat as she takes it upon herself to help me to all sorts of things I
didn’t know I needed.
“Ooh look,
wrapping paper’s on a multi saver, of course I bought mine in September, but
you can never have too much can you?” several rolls land in both our trolleys.
She’s on quite a roll herself now, and reaches for everything in twos. On a
good day I can be quite assertive, but all the fight’s gone out of me by this
stage, and I trudge along behind my trolley, consoling myself that I should
have enough here to hibernate till spring. It’s no accident I decide, that the
booze section is at the far corner of the shop, just at the point when you know
you deserve a treat. So despite protests of:
“We don’t
need that isle; I bought my sherry weeks ago.”
I carry on; my trolley, by now gaining momentum, and far too
heavy to turn at a moments notice. Now it’s my turn, I can shop in twos as
well; two for me, two for Margo.
“But I
don’t drink,”
“Didn’t you
see that documentary last week? A little bit of alcohol is good for you – it
relieves stress.”
“But I
don’t suffer from stress.”
“You might
have visitors,” I assure her. “Spirits – good for a sore throat, and unwinding
after shopping.”
“I haven’t
got a sore throat, and I enjoy shopping.”
By the time
I get to the cash out, I’m feeling slightly revived, the shiny bottles
decorating my shopping like baubles on a Christmas tree.
“Would you
like help?” asks the cashier. I look nervously at Margo, but she’s too busy
with her own shopping, trying to hide the shameful amount of booze that seems
to have found its way into her trolley.
“Yes
please,” I smile, what do I care if my potatoes are packed on top of my bread,
or the cat tins on the tomatoes? It’ll all turn out right in the end, Christmas
always does; and anyway, what can possibly go wrong when I’ve got an army of
goodies in little plastic bottles. I’m a great believer in the goodies always
coming out on top.
By
Anne M. Stephenson
Published in
‘Cauldron’ Magazine 2005
