Every little helps

Number of cigarettes smoked over weekend: Less than a pack (good)
Number of pages of Allen Carr's book read: None (v. bad)

I think I am in danger of becoming one of those "grumpy old men" as seen on BBC TV some time ago (you know the show I'm talking about - elder celebs like Will Self basically whinging on about how the modern world is full of annoying things (like text messaging using bad grammar, etc), albeit in such an amusing fashion that it leaves you with the sense that they were right in what they were saying and wondering whether in fact the world is an increasingly mad place after all and they actually were right to be slightly cantankerous about it)..

However, I find that it's the oddest things tend to get my goat.

A scary example of this is that I find that I becoming increasingly brand loyal to my supermarket, and not because of the price or the quality of the produce they sell (although I will complain here and now about Morrison's orange juice as it's shit. It doesn't exactly start great to begin with, having a horribly waxy texture to it, but within 48 hours of purchasing this foul orange liquid, it takes on the flavour of battery acid - eww. Reason #27 to avoid that place like the fecking plague, if you ask me). No the reasons that my loyalty has been gained is more related to the whole "shopping experience" and, more worryingly, the layout of the store.

You see, just over a year ago they built a splendid new Tesco Extra by us. It truly is a leviathan of Supermarkets, with just about every product you can think of and such a variety of products never before seen in one location in my home town, bringing choice beyond the wildest dreams of your average shopper. However, as I said, the actual produce on sale don't mean that much to me (although the large Music & DVD section is a plus, and the fact that it's the only supermarket one can go in and find a copy of the Edge magazine is definitely a bonus). Seriously though, it must be the size of a large indoor arena. You could probably squeeze a sizeable U2 concert in between the dairy products and the bakery and that would still leave enough room to be able to nip in and get a jar of Nescafé whilst Bono and the Edge were midway through their set.

It also gives it's loyal shoppers a logical layout of aisles, there seems to be a natural progression in the way that stuff is presented to you so that you're not running from one side of the shop to the other (and I tell you, running from one side of the shop to the other would be a Herculean effort in itself, so much so they'd probably wrap you in a tin foil blanket and hand you a free Snickers at the checkout if you were foolish enough to attempt such a run).

Also the in my Tesco Extra aisles are double the width of the average supermarket aisles. This is a huge plus as some people seem to regard supermarkets not as a place to do their weekly "big shop", but as some sort of huge social gathering, where they will bump into friends, family and long-lost long distance relatives and will think nothing of blocking aisles with their fully laden trolleys endlessly gabbing on about how the kids have grown or how old Uncle George is doing so much better since his operation. And they will gossip on like for hours, their trolleys parked lengthways across the entire aisle whilst the whole shop is grid locked around them with angry shoppers who are unable to steer their trolleys past their idiotic conversations, blissfully unaware that an entire shopful of consumers are ready to bludgeon them with a sesame seed topped baguette. The tossers.

This is particular nightmare for me as I don't really like having to go to a supermarket - it is a necessary evil. I go there with a sense of dread, committed to getting in their, grabbing the stuff I need, quickly and in an almost military stylee, and getting out before the homicidal rage sets in. My spangly Tesco Extra has anticipated this build of "trolley rage" by providing aisles large enough to have a small anti-war demonstration going on whilst still allowing you to select your favourite brand of Baked Beans uninterrupted.

So all is good whilst I shop in Tesco.
I feel safe there..
It is a happy place to do commerce..

But, this weekend we strayed from the path, we tread an alternate supermarket's aisle, we walked on the dark side.. Against my will I was taken to another Supermarket and forced to do the weekly shop there. It started badly and things got worse from then on in..

As I tried to find a single space in the grubby, underground car park, I began to suspect that it would not be a good day. My Tesco provides me with acres of lovely, free parking and, even in the mad weeks before and over Christmas, I have yet to have trouble getting parked up. But this inferior produce emporium (who shall remain nameless but they know who they are!!!) forced me to drive round and round this grimy, poorly-lit subterranean car park desperately looking for a space.. After twenty minutes we finally located a space almost adequately begin enough to park a scooter, and I squeezed our car in (deftly avoiding the stupid concrete pillar that occupied approximately 30% of the space available).

So.. out of the car, and now we're looking for a trolley.. I peer through the murky, dank surroundings, a possible location for the next "Resident Evil" game (A zombie behind every car, perhaps..? Oh hang on, no. Zombies? No -that's the checkout staff). I spot a collection of them skulking in a shadowy recess in the wall, and -resisting the urge to draw a pistol and forward roll between the battered automobiles parked between me and them, I set off to collect a trolley. But - pah! I'm am scuppered at the first hurdle. Taking a trolley it would seem is not merely a matter of pulling on the handle.. oh no.. we are in a pikey supermarket now. Therefore, the trolleys are chained up like submissives in some twisted S&M grocery dungeon. I almost expected to look round and see some hillbilly looking at me suspiciously whilst chewing baccy and asking Cletus to "fetch the shotgun, boy. Goddamn rustlers by the trolleys again". No, in order to emancipate these trolleys from their bonds, you are required to deposit a pound into them. What kind of message is this sending out to me? "We value your custom, but half suspect you'll nick our beautiful trolleys you thieving bastard". After much pocket patting, I locate the necessary "trust amulet" (otherwise known as a pound coin) and drop it into the slot whilst wondering absentmindedly if the scrap value of the trolley is worth more than a pound (hey, they put the idea of trolley theft in my mind in the first place). Oh and the trolley squeaks too and one of the wheels is wobbly. For this I lent them a pound?

My initial suspicions were confirmed when we entered the shop: narrow aisles organised in total chaos and disarray were laid out before me. Navigation through the store was hampered by the fact that the equivalent of speaker's corner was gathered in the middle of each row of produce. We wandered aimlessly here, there and everywhere trying to locate the items on our list. Ooh where shall we put the coffee - that's it right next to the pet food - yeah, that makes sense!! And where was the stuff on our list anyway? They didn't even carry the basic range of light bulbs for gawd's sake. To add insult to injury, only 50% of the checkout staff were actually working (hardly reasonable to assume though that a Saturday afternoon that people might want to shop) so the queues to each till actually mingled with the mass conversation in each aisle, and -wouldn't you know it- allowed even more long lost friends and relatives to join in the idle gossip about Uncle George and the kids (no, not like that, you sick puppy). Taste the Difference? My arse.

I don't know if it's unreasonable to get so wound up about this stuff, but it was cathartic to vent.. so thanks for participating in the group therapy. I feel much calmer now..

..but just imagine what I'll be like without my nicotine.
Be afraid
Be very afraid