Having anything to say about Waitrose is almost as difficult for me as wearing a hat in Church would be: it feels wrong, I know it to BE wrong and it makes me feel desperately uncomfortable.
And yet, and yet…
Until I move into Future Home, I am still living with my saintly and fantastic parents, and part of my residence has been my insistence that I buy the food and wine. This has meant my going to the local Waitrose (can you imagine the combination of Richmond and Waitrose, it’s like an upper middle-class apocalypse) every Saturday morning at 8am, before the local retired majors and actors turn up.
Now: if your heritage combines Scotland, Ireland and Italy, you’re going to get a group of people who like a drink. This means that on most weekends I am buying at least six bottles of wine for the forthcoming week – and this is where the problems begin. There is a woman (and there is no nice way to say this) who works on the checkout, and is the spitting image of the dwarf from “Don’t Look Now” in a tabard, and she combines this with an eternally downbeat manner – which is kind of understandable, and if she is ever on the tills when I am waiting to pay there is a ritual which she always goes through. She sees two bottles of wine hit the conveyor belt and enquires, “Oooh: are you having a party?’ (delivered in the exact tones of her asking “Are you chemotherapy?” and every time I see her, I have replied “Yes” – because it’s quicker.
But this morning, I got bored of the thought before I was even asked and started thinking of possible responses to “Oooh: are you having a party?’ and at the moment my top five intended are:-
- “No. I’m an alcoholic.”
- “Just drinking to forget. Drinking to forget.”
- “THEY put them there. THEY MAKE ME BUY THEM.”
- “It just makes Communion go with more of a bang if we use a bit of the… you know…”
- “Yes – seven for seven-thirty. Bring a bag of crisps and a goat on a bit of string.”
Eiljert Gabbles On 