To Budgens, timing my arrival for the moment they fill the "Reduced to Clear" shelf with unsold produce (EXACTLY 4.25pm), those of us in the know hanging around and pretending not to pay attention to the daily ritual, our act betrayed by the fact we are all salivating like Pavlov's Dog."Ah-ha!" I say eyeing the goods as it is solemnly doled out onto the shelf, "I quite fancy one of those short-dated yoghurts", of which there were DOZENS, the people of Caversham not being that enamoured with paying full price for poncy-brand organic goods.
I drifted through the crowd, ready to strike. Timing is everything – there is a well practised art of getting to the front of the mob – and I was well set to swoop for a cut-price dairy product. Then…
"Mind 'ow you go," said a voice from below me.
To my dismay, I was nudged out of the way by the sharp elbows of an elderly woman, who filled her basket to the brim with ALL of them. ALL OF THEM. ALL OF THEM!
She was tiny but carried her load like Geoff Capes heaving a sports bag full of shot putts, and I raged to myself over what use she had with three dozen eat-by-midnight-tonight-or-you-will-die-of-yoghurt-poisoning strawberry desserts. Nothing was left on the shelf except for a sorry-looking pot of hummus.
Hummus: Made of chickpeas, the screams of the dead and raw, naked ANGER.
ANGER!
I was so angry over my defeat at the hands of this senile delinquent, I NEARLY SAID SOMETHING.
I bought a packet of dry roast nuts instead, giving her the skunk eye as she tootled across the car park to her Nissan Micra.
That told her.
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