I hate shopping at our local Asda store. The aisles are really narrow and it can be difficult to navigate a shopping trolley complete with wriggling toddler without crashing into a display, sending tins of Smart Price Baked Beans in every direction. It is generally full of ignorant chavs and other scum, just begging to be taken out with random machine gun fire. The awful mothers with their unruly kids (”Chelsea-Kylie, fucking get your arse here now before I beat you into next week!”) make my skin crawl. There is never any bread.
I do try not to be a small minded, bigoted snob, but a trip to Asda could almost be enough to make me buy a twin set and pearls, get a blue rinse and enquire at the WI whether my tendancy to swear will keep me out of the jam making contest.
The unfortunate thing is that Boston is a fairly small town and not over-endowed with supermarkets. There is a Tesco and a Somerfield here too, but Asda is on the way from my house to, well, pretty much everywhere in the known universe so it’s just so darn handy. I begrudge paying Tesco a fiver to bring me my shopping when I live so close to a supermarket. So I just have to grit my teeth and say to myself that I’ll be out of the place before I know it.
Today my ire was irked by a Little Old Lady buying her week’s supply of cooking sherry. I had managed to get round the store without killing or even grossly mutilating anyone and stood in the (ridiculously long) queue at the checkout, idly wondering what sort of quantum effect it is that causes everyone else’s queue to move faster than yours, when this old bat dear decided to hold up MY queue with her old battish attempts to get a whole week’s worth of cheap plonk into one crap carrier bag. She was there for long enough for me to hypothesise some sort of Doppler-shift shopping queue effect (the further away the queue is from yours, the faster it seems to go – measurable by differences in red and blue light emitted from said queue and your own) that seems to keep me as its centre of gravity, and to start postulating the effect of adding some probablility equations regarding the chances of getting a competent checkout assistant at whichever till you choose (I always get the spotty trainee for some reason).
Hardly earth shattering I know. I think I have anger issues that should possibly be addressed 
, and perhaps all the bollocks that seems to be coming from my head at the moment suggests that I’m getting better now 
and will soon be back at work (more on this to follow another time).
