By Laura Hutchinson
THERE are few things worse than being stuck somewhere you don’t want to be. Such was my dilemma recently. The other half had offered to pick me up after work, knowing that I’d be tired and cranky after a long day, and that, with the state of public transport in this country, it would take me about an hour-and-a-half to make the 20 minute journey home. So I was looking forward to getting back, getting the dinner on and getting the feet up before public transport me was even halfway there.
You’d think I’d know better by now. But no, I was still surprised when I received a text from him to say he was going to be stuck in a meeting a little longer than anticipated and would be an hour late collecting me. Grand, I thought, I’ll still be home quicker than the bus–Luas combo. And the weekly shop needed to be done so, clever clogs that I am, I told him I’d go do the shopping in the nearby Tesco and, by the time he arrived, he’d be just in time to pay for it all.
Foiled again. A few minutes before he was due to collect me I got a text saying he’d locked himself out of the house and his car keys were inside. At this stage, I’d already been the whole way around Tesco and was more than ready to just pay and get the hell out of there. Cue more quick thinking from me.
His grandmother lives somewhat near to us, so I told him to leg it over to her and borrow her car. Knowing that it would take at least another half hour before he got to me, I turned the trolley around and prepared for Tesco: Round Two.
I was watching the clock, and very conscious of the fact that the staff must have thought I was a homeless person, when I received another text. Finally, I thought, he must be here. (Can you see where this is going?) A text to say his gran’s car wouldn’t start. While he was off getting jump-leads, I was heading back for Round Three.
My mortification and murderous mood was multiplied when, two hours into my ordeal, I ran into a girl I know who’d given me change for the trolley when I was first entering the shop. (Cursed things didn’t take trolley tokens, only €2 coins.) She smiled cheerily and thrilled, “Still here?” at me, while I desperately tried to explain that I didn’t just love Tesco so much that I’d decided to stay. That I wasn’t there by choice, I was basically being held there against my will. That I hadn’t suddenly developed an intense interest in toilet paper, it was just the closest section to the main door that I could get reception on my phone. Essentially, I was trying to explain that I wasn’t just a massive loser, and failing miserably.
By the time the other half eventually arrived, I’d spent twoand-a-half hours in the Tesco-of-no-return, and was feeling particularly stabby. My trolley was twice as full as it would normally be after I’d been around the place three times – once to do the shopping, the second time to put all the frozen stuff back, and the third time to pick it all up again.
I had spent about an hour in the tea section, examining every brand of tea you can possibly imagine, and all the different flavours. I don’t even drink tea.
I had enough groceries to see me right through to the New Year, enough magazines to keep me entertained through hundreds of lunch breaks, and enough chocolate to induce ten sugar comas. I also had a pair of shoes, a cardigan, some plastic hooks, and a mop.
When I finally caught sight of him coming through the entrance, I almost dropped to my knees and wept with relief. I was free! I could finally go home and relax and start working on that diabetes, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t have to set foot inside another supermarket again for several weeks.
“I just want to grab a few things”, he said. “I’ll be about 10 minutes”.
How he didn’t get a mop through the eye and a kick up the arse I’ll never know.