Eyes On The List

Normal Saturdays are bad enough. But this is the darkest of all Saturdays. The Saturday before Christmas and the inescapable tradition of festive panic buying. Record numbers of frantic, greedy, hunter gatherers in tracksuit bottoms, woolly hats and caffeinated eyes, drag paper chains of children across the car park in various states of tantrum, whinging and sugar infused mania.

First, I have to get to the front door. Weaving between queues of rageful drivers as they inch forward to the bumper in front. The tension in the air is as dense as cold butter from the fridge. Trolleys lie abandoned like fallen soldiers, meters from their designated bays. Time is too precious. Each drama is the most important. Friends argue over Starbucks or Costa.  A couple plot their festive in-law survival tactics. A woman watches the clock in her car as it whittles away her last December. Someone else is hangry. It’s all relative of course.

The doors know I’m there, sweeping apart with their mechanised welcome. The artificial light hits me instantly. Colour and high-pitched brightness everywhere, frazzling my brain. Stacks of beer, rows of toys, displays of mince pies. So many things in every direction, it’s loud - as though they have personalities, sounds…voices.

The easy peel tangerines call to me ‘Pick me! I’m all shiny and fresh.’, while the Budweiser crates shout ‘BOGOF!’. The need to respond is urgent and alarming. I avert my eyes and tell my feet to get past the special offers – this bit is always the worst.

I pause in the flower section. They grin and ahhhhhh at each other with their alluring scents and petals, enjoying their roles of pleasure and comfort. Today there’s an edgy voice amongst the display, spiky holly, tightly strung into wreathes, and some cheeky mistletoe with bells on that gives me a little jingle. But some of the flowers are wilting and I don’t like to tune into their whimpers too closely. Once, I ended up buying four Mother’s Day bouquets from the bargain bucket because I couldn’t stand the sorrow of an unfulfilled bloom.

I find the folded paper in my back pocket and remember my strategy: eyes on the list. Nobody else has a paper list scribbled in biro, they’re either on phones or freestyling, some are even browsing, I notice with a shudder.

I head for the onions but there’s a huddle of Christmas jumpers blocking the vegetables. They’re chatting about the lack of broccoli, the price of sandwiches, the state of the world. Eventually they disperse and I go towards my onions just as a man in a beige coat reaches for the same. We begin an excruciating British dance of politeness that seems to last for days.

I’m one item down and my battery is already at 50%. I make a bee line for the eggs but a blur of lights and tinsel distracts me. Another desperate reminder of how awful life will be without gravy or crackers. Sprouts are at every station. I feel sick. Do I need these things? I look down at my crumpled paper for reassurance. No, I need teabags, stick to the plan. The Kenko is a little jittery as I turn the corner but mostly the aisle a big sigh. The PG Tips are happy to clamber on board my basket and before I know it, the shelves have morphed seamlessly into the biscuit section.

I’m surrounded by shiny reflective packets of every shape and size. Maryland Cookies sound like fairground rides and fanfares. Bourbons have attitude. Jaffa Cakes are arguing over where they belong. Rich Teas, the blandest of all the biscuits, stare blankly into space. Vienesse Whirls raise a charming eyebrow addressing me as ‘M’Lady’ as I pass. Cadbuy’s Chocolate fingers are some of the happiest biscuits. They’re not on my list but they’re so hard to resist.

I whizz through the freezer section, a mini arctic that sharpens my focus. I can’t look directly at the icecreams, they’re such a colourful troop of promise – as though life will be more fun if I eat a Fab, simpler if I buy mini milks, or more decadent if I go for a magnum. Suddenly I feel a bit down, a bit empty inside. These aren’t on my list, I don’t even want them. Does that mean I’m none of these things?

My energy’s dropped even lower…35%. The clinical whiteness of a wall of toilet paper fills the aisle. Does it matter which one I choose? None of them are speaking to me like the biscuits, they’re all a bit indifferent. I guess you would be if your life’s work was to be the best at absorbing people’s shit. I felt sorry for the value packs, the ones who clearly wouldn’t do the job very well. A crap job, done badly is a depressing thought. Eventually I choose Andrex, they seem to be the most proud.

The toothpaste is on the same aisle as the medicine and the ‘Feminine Hygeine’, loudly signposted from above. The shelves are rammed full of bottles, tubes, packets and creams. A cacophony of moans, ahhhh’s, exhales and grumbles litter the air. The plasters giggle, the Tampax blush, the paracetamol mutter like a soothing choir of matrons. I put some in my basket and they murmur thanks and gentle applause.

The self -service tills make me feel like a child, responsible for my own satisfying beep. I’m 5 years old again playing shops, packing my bags with heavy at the bottom and squishy at the top. I wave my card across a magical void that somehow knows I’m there and takes my money from an abstract place.

My battery is flashing at 5%, I weave past the agitated shoppers cramming their bags and desperately searching for assistance to nullify their flashing red lights. They shout at the machines and argue with them – as though they might answer. These people are crazy, I smile to myself before heading home for a cup of tea and a choccie finger.