I have spent today ambling around Asda.
I have spent the last few days compiling a lengthy and detailed list of everything we needed, except the things I forgot, and accidentally including several things that we turned out not to need after all.
It was a very organised trip. I remembered to take the list and the shopping bags, and at no point did any of the car windows explode, which was a pleasure. I even carefully added the bill up on the back of the shopping list as I went round, at least until it turned out that I was about a hundred quid over my limited budget, and after that I stopped bothering.
The purpose of the shopping trip was as usual the imminent arrival of the children, who are coming home this weekend and who would not be at all happy to be confronted by the sort of things Mark and I eat. They prefer fish fingers and wine gums to brie and olives, and if left unsupervised will ignore the fruit bowl and pop across the road to Greggs instead.
Wishing to discourage this sort of behaviour I determinedly purchased carrots and celery, which I remember from my education are wholesome, if dull, things to eat, with the intention of transforming them into a wholesome diet, or at least into something which could be left on the top of the stove in a pan for them to ignore on their way out to the pie shop.
The whole lot filled the trolley and kept slipping off the top, and the kindly chap on the checkout, who gets in my taxi sometimes, summoned another chap with a second trolley to help. Having lived in France for a while I have never ceased to appreciate the helpfulness of British supermarkets, anybody who thinks that the French way of life sounds idyllic should try taking a faulty lightbulb back to Super U. I don’t envy anybody whose job it is to try and negotiate Brexit with them, I never even managed to get a credit note.
I loaded it all into the car and chugged home. I was briefly sorry that Mark was at the farm and not available to help with the unpacking, but did not regret the absence of the dogs, whose interest in bags of shopping on the floor has to be sharply discouraged, and who mill irritatingly around our feet like the tentacles of a giant squid around stranded ships in old films.
I like the feeling of the house when I have been shopping, and famine has been staved off for another few weeks. I had a happy hour refilling jars and throwing away empty packets and stacking shelves, and by the time I had finished it had gone dark outside and was almost time for work.
I had determined to cook, however, because of thinking about it all afternoon, and so I threw the carrots and celery and various other newly-purchased plants into a pan to release their naturally vegetable flavours, the way the health food articles suggest. You won’t be astonished to learn that the resulting concoction turned out to be flat and uninspiring, and had to be improved with slabs of butter, followed by red wine and cream and six rashers of thick smoked bacon. This cheered it all up no end, after which I got enthusiastic about cooking it, and we took some of it out to the taxi rank for dinner.
Of course what I have achieved is to have produced something which the children will not like at all. They don’t like masses of garlic and strong cheese in food, so it is a good job that I bought fish fingers and crisps as well.
Vegetables are over rated anyway.
