I cannot find the words to explain quite how badly I didn’t want to be at work tonight.
The longing was almost tangible, as if it had sat down at the kitchen table and poured itself a cup of tea.
I wanted to drink a very great deal and then crawl into bed and hide under the duvet.
The reason for this was that it has been my monthly day for shopping in Asda.
I do not like shopping.
I had a very long shopping list.
I didn’t have as much money as I would have liked either, so I had to top it up with Mark’s credit card, but he won’t worry about it because he doesn’t read this.
It was a truly brain-crumbling experience.
Fortunately my shopping list had been the product of several days of detailed worrying, and hence was entirely comprehensive. This meant that I didn’t have that horrible sinking feeling that you get when you are halfway round and suddenly realise that it is going to cost about three times as much as you hoped it might.
The list was written down in my kitchen book, which is where I record things that I need to remember, like the children’s birthdays and how much palm oil I need to put in soap, and that we are halfway through the last bag of flour. Mark uses it to draw diagrams sometimes, when he is trying to explain things to me and I am being especially stupid.
I took the book with me and went through the list, crossing things off, as I ploughed around Asda. I always write the price of everything down and add it all up as I go. I don’t know why I still do this really, it is probably a hangover from the days before credit cards were invented.
In any case I usually stop about two aisles from the end when I realise that I have already overspent hopelessly and that no amount of scribbled nine-down-carry-one will make it any less.
The łist was so comprehensive that I didn’t buy a single thing that was not on it, and I didn’t manage to get several things that were. I spent ages milling up and down the soap powder aisle, staring vacantly at shelves and shelves of brightly coloured, puzzling boxes and bottles, because I wanted soap flakes and they seem to have been uninvented.
This is tiresome to say the least, because I don’t like hand washing things in machine detergent and I have been too busy and preoccupied to make any nice laundry soap for ages.
They didn’t have any borax either. It is a jolly good job that we have got a decent ironmonger in the village where I can buy this sort of sensible product. It would have been easy if I had wanted a bottle of pink liquid flavoured with moonflowers and strawberries, but I didn’t. I wanted washing soda, soap flakes and borax, because I have got sensitive underwear and Mark gets oil all over everything.
It took me ages. By the time I reached the checkout I could hardly see over the huge pile of things in the trolley and was feeling drained of life and colour.
The man on the checkout gets in my taxi sometimes, and was pleased to see me, although I had reservations. I am not sure that I want taxi customers to know what sort of tampons I purchase or that I expect our household to consume a dozen tubs of Pringles and sixty sausages during the month. Actually I don’t want anybody to know that in case they think my children are getting malnourished, which they are not, mostly because of school.
I paid the massive bill and then spent hours putting it all away when I got home. I had just finished when Mark came home and it was time to go to work.
I think I have been very brave, coming to sit in the taxi rank instead of collapsing into intoxicated Asda induced oblivion.
Also it is done now.
I won’t have to worry about it for another month at least.
