The Great Unwashed

Trips to 'Diceyland' are often eventful. (You know the one – everything is rounded up to the nearest pound and comes from a huge freezer thus assisting the normalisation of the hard of learning by easy addition at the checkout and shove it in the microwave culinary skills when they get home.) Predominantly frequented by the Great Unwashed, forays into this supermarket get my crazy magnet humming like a Hadron Collider. Eyes down and focus. Bread, milk, eggs and checkout. Don't look up, don't stray from the path. Shimmy round crazy lady and her identical husband. Why does the phrase 'kissing cousins' suddenly spring to mind? Don't get distracted. There's the Addams family, all long hair and no shoes, and that's just the boys. Then I spot the Holy Trinity. Definately born again, but sadly into the House of God rather than the House of Fraser. Sporting matching Hawain shirts, short socks and sandals, mum and dad holding the shopping trolley together as they gaze benevolently at their teenage son in his matching outfit and Australian hat (corks optional).

Nearly done, checkout in sight.

I stood in the queue avoiding all eye contact. The huge chap in front of me taking advantage of the two for one deal on family sized bags of wine gums, suddenly announced, "I can't stand it. I need to wait over here!" He slalommed his way back up the queue and stood in a space where he obviously felt more safe, explaining to our bewildered stares, "Claustrophobia" . Whilst all our attention had been on wine gum guy, the chap behind the lady behind me was announcing his undying love for a small Asian women. His alcohol to blood ratio defying all normal human parameters had utterly inhibited his ability to remember, not only what items he had selected but, how the plastic dividers keep all our shopping seperate. With slight of hand that would have made a member of the Magic Circle weep with envy, he perloined one of my loaves of bread. Before I realised what had happened, I quizzed the checkout girl as to what she had done with my second loaf? We looked around and our gazes alighted simultaneously on drunk bloke's shopping. My loaf was as conspicuous as a nun in a night club, resting on top of his Tennants Extra. Consumed with horror and embarrassment at what was about to unfold I caught her eye and gave the minutest shake of the head, eyes wide, my brain screaming, "just leave it!". To my relief she carried on ringing up my groceries. At which point I braced myself for the dreaded "Do you have a bonus card?" question. Since every visit brings me out in hives and sends my blood pressure into the stratosphere, I just can't bring myself to pledge allegiance with a points card. Mustering every ounce of skill I have learned from 20 years in Am Dram, I looked her straight in the eye, (well one of them, and then the other one, and then back to the first one, as, unfortunately she was afflicted with what my dad calls 'football eyes' – 1 home, 1 away) and I proclaimed firmly, "No, thank you" hoping to convey that I didn't have a card, didn't want a card, and had absolutely no intention of ever applying for one. For indeed, that would indicate a regular use of, and loyalty to their establishment, something of which I am in complete denial.

Just because their 'staples' are half the price of most other supermarkets and they are conveniently situated next to the bank. I can stop going there any time I like. I don't need 'Diceyland'. I can easily get my milk in 'Chavland'.

I have an obsession with paying as little as possible for my milk since we had to let the milkman go. I was perfectly straight with him and explained it was nothing to do with his exemplory service but just that his milk was so darn expensive. (Oh, and he has the face of someone who may have his mother hacked up in the chest freezer!) But now I am on some economically crazed mission to pay no more than 25 pence for every pint, in a lame attempt to alleviate some of the guilt I harbour for doing the dirty on a local, small business man in these times of strife. Every time I manage to purchase a pint for less than he was providing, I feel justified in my decision.

So despite each visit to Diceyland feeling like a reanactment of 'Shaun of the Dead', some sick gluttony for punishment keeps me going back there to mix with the wierd and wonderful of my home town.