As someone without a fridge I go to Tesco's at least once a day... quite often it's more than that as there is one right next-door to work that's open 24-hours a day (But that one isn’t my usual and doesn’t feel right, a bit alien if you see what I mean? A bit like wearing someone else’s still-warm underpants).
As such I’ve gotten to appreciate them. Not like ‘er indoors who "hates shopping" and takes ages to find anything (Having said that there is a bit at the back where I can never find what I’m looking for; it’s a bit like the Bermuda Triangle as no matter how sure I am that I’ve got the right aisle I always end up looking up and down at least 3 to find the four-cheese sauce). Or ‘im next-door who reckons it does him some good to avoid Tesco-land for weeks on end and visits Morrison’s instead.
I love the staff there:
- There’s the Caribbean one who takes forever and tries to be helpful but ends up winding everyone up in the queue – I only use here check-out when I know I’ve got plenty of time and I’ve not bought over the daily limit of alcohol as she’ll start talking about how anyone can tell the difference between a bottle of Poacher’s or Star Bitter (I do keep buying it so that I don’t drink too much on my days off).
- There’s the Asian bloke who, when I asked for some bags as I’d forgotten my trusty pannier, said that it was too late to do anything about the environment and that we were all doomed. Bless. I saw him not so long back shopping with his family smiling – I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile before and he looked like a different person altogether.
- There’s the aging cowboy on the basket tills who is just so cool it hurts, so very disdainful of anyone under the age of 50.
- There’s the gorgeous lass who looks like Kirsten Dunst only not so vague, I think she’s being trained up though as she’s not been on a till in ages. I do so swoon when I see her but she’ll not notice me as a fat, aging shopper who is too skint to afford a fridge and needs to go to Tesco’s everyday. I’m seeing less and less of her though so I think she’s stuck in some back office pouring over clubcard returns and trying to analyse why Poacher’s Choice still gets bought even after they upped the price.
- There’s the gorgeous African lad who natters in French and make’s me wish, if not that I was gay, that I was a leggy 21-year-old blond with a figure like a swimsuit model so that he’d talk to me more.
- There’s the lass we met feeding swans when we went to get water ages ago who looked terrified that we were mad when we asked if she wanted a cuppa. She still looks worried when we meet though at least she talks – if only about ‘er indoors. Could see her thinking that we were mad English people waiting to lure her aboard and sell her into a life of sexual slavery.
- And so very many more that I’d end up boring you to tears.
One of the oddest things about the place is the customers, going during the day you meet the strangest people – I haven’t been talked to as much since I was a kid and travelled on buses with my Ma (Everyone talks to my Ma, especially on buses – you can be sat on the trip back from Town on the X39 and get some old-girl’s life story in 25 minutes, their disappointments with life after their fiancée died during the war and the whole nine yards!). Today some old-fella (who had the 2nd nicest aftershave I’ve ever smelt – would have asked him what it was but didn’t want to encourage him – talked about how B&Q didn’t have the right-sized nut and bolt! He was odd: he was buying a Xmas cake, chicken, stuffing and gravy – it’s only the 9th of December and what about the veggies?
