Somewhat foolishly, I determined that this morning I should brave the horrors of the local Waitrose. Happily, I did not seek more than a few sprouts, a joint of beef, a parsnip or two and some bacon; accordingly, I was permitted to wait in the (relatively short) hand basket queue, rather than the 100 yard trolley queue.
People go mad at Christmas. And at Waitrose it is the middle class who predominate in their determination to scoop up the last jar of goose fat. All these Edinburgh matrons in their smart casual outfits - it really is quite terrifying.
For once in the year, they are accompanied by their husbands in their V-neck sweaters and slacks. Due to their unfamiliarity with supermarkets, these guys have no conception of trolley discipline; while their wives are assessing chipolata sausages, they dump their trolley in the middle of the aisle to examine some obscure Italian prosciutto that they have no intention of buying.
Back to Tesco in the New Year.
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