Skinnin’ Yer Shins
credit to internet
It always happens to me – the shopping trolley with the wonky wheel.
There they stood in a long line piggy-backed on each other looking all docile and innocent. I dither beside them muttering” Will I chance this one or maybe this one?” I always end up with one that thinks its great craic to take the skin of as many shins as you can in the shortest time!
God be with the time, I mused, when all I had to think about on a Saturday was skipping into Woolworths to stand google-eyed flicking thought LPs of John, George, Paul and Ringo – my favourite Paul Mc Cortney.
I choose my trolley and steer it into the least crowded aisle I can find. It behaves impeccable – for a while. Then, feeling my grip loosen as I browse, it nose-dives at the first pair of ankles it spies. Apologising profusely I rein it in cursing it under a sweet old lady smile.
Terrified to loosen my grip of iron on its handle again to search for my shopping list I decide the shopping going home with me today will a Cilla Black “Surprise! Surprise!
Cheese springs to mind. I’m sure that was on the list. The shelves are heaving with choice. Who knew there were so many kinds! Some even look blue moulded! Some have holes in them “Like my brain will soon have if I don’t get out of this supermarket and away from this demon trolley,” I muttered grimly.
Cake was it on the list? I remember the golden Madera slab cake mammy used to bring home for a treat when she went to town to do the once-a-week family shopping on a Tuesday.
I drive the trolley forward demanding it take the corner into the next aisle without demolishing the knock down special offers stand. It teeters precariously as I pass it – something makes a slushing sound. I hurried on, take a right and turn into the drinks aisle with its amazing array of different shaped bottles. Looking at them I recalled a cousin, a returned Yank, a cousin of my father’s. She drank wine from a green bottle with a long gander neck that came in a round straw basket type thing. When she’d polished off the wine, she’d stick a lampshade on the neck of the bottle and make it into a lamp.
With muttered threat of what I was planning to do with the trolley if it didn’t behave itself I parked it up and yanked the shopping list out of my bag. Beside me a young chick thing gave my scribbled note a disparaging look as she slapped the prices of drink she was plucking from the shelves – at a rate that melted my powers of concentration, into her phone.
I made a ‘humph’ sound. “A far cry from the broken biscuits or hot peanuts we treated ourselves to at the end of a working week,” I commented.
On the move again I stared in astonishment at the huge glass cabinets full of instant gratification that guaranteed to quell your hunger and keep you slim. My list contained none of these so I retrieved my trolley and moved on.in the direction of the checking out till.
I waited bemused as three young cubs decided how much money their mother should spend on each of them from the sweet stand beside the tills.
It made me think of the Pick N Mix counter – just inside Woolworth’s doors in Castle Street. I can still see the girl behind the counter lift the tilted lids of the glass fronted boxes and dig deep into the multi-coloured array of dolly mixtures, black and white brandy balls and rainbow coloured mixtures.
I placed my items on the moving belt. It shunted my toilet rolls, cream cake (no cheese) and a bottle of wine towards a youth with what looked like a keyring dangling from one ear and his hair tied in a knot on top of his head much like my granny used to wear hers.
He hesitated as he picked up the wine. “I’ll need ID for this item.” he said with a straight face.
“Will my bus pass do?” I asked dryly.
I let the trolley have its freedom. Happily it veered across the floor like a small child released from its walking harness.
I headed for the double doors. It was somebody else’s problem now.
Gemma Hill 2021 ©
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