BANK holidays do funny things to shoppers.
Technically it's one or two days where you might not be able to access a supermarket, and despite the fact that you may never normally visit a store for a whole week, it puts the fear of God into you. What if you run out of mixed herbs or fishfingers in the meantime? You have cupboards crammed with food but guaranteed the one thing you want is the very thing you will run out of, just when access to supplies is being denied.
And so this very basic and irrational fear seems to be part of the human nature, evolved after centuries of incompetence. Everyone, no matter how sensible they may be the rest of the time, will make a mental note to pop into the supermarket before a bank holiday to stock up on bread: "Three loaves should be enough, shouldn't it dear?" You'll hear people mutter. "Are we okay for carrots?" and classic behaviour includes stocking up on burgers and buns ready for the "traditional" Bank Holiday Barbeque which never happens because the typical British weather will put a stop to that.
So as normal I fell prey to this behaviour and found myself in the supermarket on the Saturday before Easter Sunday, and witnessed a truly spectacular incident.
My way was blocked by two trolleys as their drivers (can you drive a trolley?) went to war.
How it started? Nobody is sure, but people were certainly sticking around to discover how it was going to end.
In the red corner: a chav in her early 20s sporting stereotypical sportswear in various pastel shades which clashed with her bleached blonde and chocolate brown highlights. In the blue: a menopausal woman with too much eyeliner and a backcombed hairdo she hadn't changed since she first looked on at the cast of Dallas in envy in 1988.
Such was their need to get their shopping sorted before the store closed in six hours, they were getting angry, something to do with the chav not moving out of the way for 80s woman. The chav unwisely made some rude comment to her mother about 80s woman and that was it. The elder opponent launched into a tirade of very, very loud abuse.
"Look at your hair!" the elder said. The case of pot calling kettle was revealed for what it was as the Chav retorted: "Look at my hair? Look at your hair!" It was never going to be a winning put-down, like two fat kids mocking each other's size. With morbid fascination people began to gape like goldfish, unable to tear themselves away from the floorshow of bad taste. Had it really come to this? People so desperate to make sure they have enough milk to get through the weekend were resorting to public humiliation. And once started, they then realised they had no grounds for an argument but determined to win, they had stooped to commenting on appearances. The 80s woman then stormed out of the store declaring she would never, ever return to such a place.
The thing is, of course, that after the catfight had dispersed, people shook their heads, paid for their shopping and almost certainly left without the one item they came in for.
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