11 June 2001
Sunday afternoon, three hours until Grand Prix and I realise I really have to get my shopping done so I have food for the week and munchies for the race. Having previously discounted the idea of having shopping delivered and ridiculed Pixeldiva for being so apparently lazy I set off to Camden, more exactly Mega City Comics and Sainsburys.
Told by man in comic store he can't take plastic for less than £10 so throw in a copy of Wizard for the hell of it and the gloating factor of going through the listings and seeing how much parts of my collection are worth.
Head to Sainsburys passing animal rights protestors with laminated blown up photos of lab animals. Toy with the idea of walking over and asking how much for the monkey lobotomy poster. Avoid goths and punks handing out fliers for the strangest things and circumvent queue for the HSBC, sneering at all the stupid people waiting in line for cash with my bag of comics that cost me a fiver more than I intended to pay.
Once inside Sainsburys look around for Jamie Oliver, cause I'd really, really like to one day give him a sound belting but looks like he doesn't shop here mid-afternoon on a Sunday. The rest of London's population does though and I swerve and skid around the aisles avoiding more people than a Cecil B deMille casting call. Grab fresh fruit salad and feel healthy. Think about all the whipped cream I'll squirt onto it and realise there's probably a status quo going on there best left untampered.
Now, Pixeldiva lists cheddar cheese as one of her must haves. I on the other hand don't necessarilly need the cheese. I like it to be available for when I do get that cheesy craving though, so in the interests of avoiding a processed dairy product free-household I ram a few children out of the way, side-swipe a pensionner and cut in front of a single mother.
Oh, damn, two women have set up a roadblock against the refrigeration unit. I wonder if I'd get away with ramming them aside A Team-style... They're busy debating which brand of cheese is healthier for them as I lean over one of their trolleys, reaching down to the cheddar. The box of Kellogg's Special K I had stupidly ignored sitting innocuously in the baby-seat of the trolley acts as a pivot and supports my weight, see-sawing my head downwards, my feet flailing helplessly behind me as they leave the floor. Beside me the woman asks if I'm alright as I right myself again and stare incredulously at the strength of Mr Kellogg's cardboard.
Its at times like these that blatantly obvious and quite stupid comments force themselves past my lips in total disregard for all common sense or pride I may have for myself.
"Uh, your Special K thwarted my attempts to get at that piece of cheese there. Could you move your trolley out of the way please?"
One of them giggled the other gave me the "you eat bugs, don't you" look (don't pretend! All men know the look and all women know how to do the look!) so I grabbed the cheese, tossed it onto the fresh fruit salad crushing the plastic container slightly and charged away as quickly as possible.
Ha! That showed them.
Maybe I should get the stuff delivered, if not only to save face but to protect the innocent people of London.
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