On Sunday evenings the world over, bloggers sit down and reflect on the most exciting event of their weekend. And then they write about it. I thought I'd attempt to maintain this tradition. I've already written about the Tudor highlight of my Saturday, so now here's the highlight of my Sunday. I've had more thrilling weekends.
It's Sunday morning, and I'm prowling the aisles of my local superstore for provisions. I have a steak and mushroom pie, I have a bottle of Mr Muscle kitchen sink unblocker, and I have two packets of new season Creme Eggs. My shopping is going well. And now I've reached the beer and crisps aisle. It's devious how they locate the two of these opposite one another. Crisp buyers are easily tempted to purchase 12-packs of booze, and alcoholics can't help but notice a whole shelf of nuts and nibbles. I've promised myself I'll not be distracted.
I want crisps. More to the point, I want one particular flavour of crisps. Not a tub of sour cream Pringles, not a jumbo 12-pack of cheesy wotsits and not a bag of lightly sea-salted kettle chips. No thanks, I want yummy Worcester Sauce flavour crisps. Their characteristic purple packet must be here somewhere - at least unless this supermarket has decided suddenly and inexplicably to remove one of my shopping favorites from their stock list. They do things like that, you know. But not today. There on the top shelf are the 6-packs of my favourite tangy crisps, and on special offer too.
Except there aren't very many 6-packs. Either side of where the Worcester Sauce crisps should be there are two great big crispy stacks, one of Prawn Cocktail and one of Smoky Bacon. If I'd wanted those flavours I'd have been laughing. But between the two is a deep canyon of crisplessness, gaping blankly backwards towards the rear of the shelf. And there, out of reach right at the back, are the last four purple 6-packs. Four for the price of three. Four packets I just have to own.
I'm very much hoping that nobody is watching as I step up on tiptoe and lean precariously towards my desired potato-based snacks. Blimey, did they use six-foot-six shelf stackers to arrange this lot back here? Only by twisting my body and not looking at what I'm doing can I grab the edge of one of the packets and edge it slowly towards me. And a second packet, just about, without quite straining myself and giving myself a hernia. But the third and fourth packets are still so far back that I don't have a hope of reaching them. Not without stepping up onto the edge of the lowest shelf, down in the own-brand section, and I'm not convinced that the plastic could take my weight without breaking. Damn.
There's never a member of staff around when you want one, is there? Normally they're standing blocking the aisle unloading a trolleyful of baked beans, or milling around after prematurely closing their checkout, but not today. I'm either going to have to troop off across the store the store to the customer service desk (AKA the lottery queue), or else try to be a little bit more resourceful myself. Erm. No wheelie step-thing to stand on. No claw handle to grab them with. No crack team of trained rodents who could scurry up and retrieve the last two packs in their teeth. Damn. Some lateral thinking is required.
So I walk round to the aisle behind - the fizzy drink zone - to see if I can reach the last two purple packets from behind. This is a desperate long shot, relying on all the Pepsi Max and Diet Coke having sold out and on the drinks shelves being narrower than those for crisps. But what do you know, the God of Snacks is on my side! Only twelve bottles of sugar-free fizz remain, right at the front of the shelf, allowing me to reach through the gap to the purple packets behind. Nearly. Hopefully.
I reach the third packet on my first stretch, whilst being extremely careful not to knock over the few intermediate plastic bottles like skittles. But the fourth packet turns out to be a much tougher proposition, and I cannot lay a finger on it. Which is extremely annoying because it's only the fourth and final packet which makes this special offer special. Come on, stretch further, stretch higher! And what do you know, it is just about possible to rest two fingers on the shiny purple surface and tweak it, and cajole it, and slide it triumphantly towards my waiting trolley.
Hurrah! I've now got my full complement of four packs (for the price of three), all by myself, despite the best intentions of the supermarket not to sell them to me. And despite looking like a complete plonker during their retrieval. I can't wait to get home and start munching.
And that really was yesterday's highlight. 24 hours of work-free Sabbath freedom and the most exciting thing I end up doing is buying crisps in a supermarket. I sometimes wonder whether everybody else is having a far more interesting and eventful Sunday than I am. This weekend, I know you were.
