The local supermarket. Surely the best place to go if you want to get a feel for an area.
Now I don’t mean ‘this town has a Lidl- hahahaha, poor people must live here’, after all, there’s a Waitrose in the centre of Croydon and I am willing to guess that quail’s eggs aren’t a big seller in there.
And anyone who doesn’t live with their head up their own arse knows they’re more likely to meet a talking dog than stumble across someone from money who actually has manners and social skills. So forget about the preconceptions you hold regarding each individual supermarket chain (Sainsbury’s sells Special Brew too, you know), it is the produce on sale and the freakshows buying it that betrays the true aspiration levels of a community.
But enough of the Sociology bullshit. Let’s get categorising your fellow shoppers with ill-informed and sweepingly judgemental statements:
The hen-pecked fella
When he’s with the missus, his role is to push the trolley, reach things from high shelves and do any heavy lifting. That is all. If he’s on his own, he’ll be buying Tampax. That is all.
The builder at lunchtime
All he wants is to pay for his fahking sandwich and copy of The Sun so he can get back to work, but instead, fate has conspired against him and now he’s stuck in the queue behind someone doing their fahking weekly shop. He is not happy about this and for some reason, feels that everyone nearby should be aware of just how put out he feels.
If he just went to the self-service till, he would’ve been done ten minutes ago, but no; this fella can operate machinery that in the wrong hands can kill people, but a touch-screen is way too advanced; he ‘don’t do that computer shit.’
The man who’s given up
Not hard to find. Just bypass the fruit and veg section entirely and go straight to the ready-meal aisle. He’ll be wheezing his way along it, seeking out the microwavable Spaghetti Bolognese for one. As you pass him, sneak a peek in his basket (it’s never a trolley). Fray Bentos pies, right? Right.
The regretful mum
It’s the eyes that give them away. They’re glazed over, almost cadaverous. Her body may well be in the chilled meats aisle with her tribe of brats, but her mind is somewhere else entirely. Maybe on a beach somewhere hot. Maybe at home with a pillow, a firm grip and a blank stare… She’ll be that one mum that’s not afraid of threatening her kids with violence in front of strangers, as in her mind the idea of prison seems akin to a lovely holiday.
The judgemental shit on checkout
If you have the audacity to go to their checkout having, by mistake, left your canvas ‘bag for life’ at home, prepare for your level of service to fall somewhere between ‘stroppy teenager after bollocking by step-parent they don’t like’ and ‘Daily Mail reader interacting with immigrant.’ If that’s how they handle a mere slip of the mind, lets hope that nobody ever shits on their conveyor belt, eh?
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