The men were all action: "I have been given my list, and I'm going to succeed in getting everything - I'm a hunter gatherer, and being a bloke is about survival of the fittest. Why are these people crawling round the aisles? I'm going to go round at speed, bashing into things and sighing at the incompetence of everyone else". Shouting too: "Hey you, where are the pickled lemons? What do you mean you've run out of Bourbon Vanilla Pods? No, I don't want those vanilla pods - my list says Bourbon! Christ, I could do this in half the time if all these other muppets weren't in the store."
Winchester Woman is a different beast. Dyed blonde hair, sunglasses in a supermarket on 23 December, and dressed as though she has had an accident with her 14-year-old daughter's Topshop wardrobe. Really, black leggings don't work in public once a woman gets above a certain weight - as my late father-in-law (a former gamekeeper) used to say: "The sights you see when you haven't got your gun". Winchester Woman also checks her brain in at the door once she has parked her black, tinted-windowed 4 x 4. The preferred trolley technique seems to be to simply stop in the middle of the aisle, and abandon it. While everyone else queues to get round the obstacle, WW is off roaming other aisles in search of chestnuts and meringues, oblivious to a) how grotesque she looks, and b) the chaos she has left behind her.
Once WW gets to the aisle, I'll bet you a pound to a penny that she dumps her groceries on the belt, and then, with a dramatic sigh and expletive, deserts them in search of the four or five items she has forgotten to get. My technique is to simply shove their shopping back up the belt while they're gone, and put mine there instead. Trust me, they love it!
And a merry Xmas to you all! Bah, humbug.
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