peculiar if you shimmied along the high street in a shift dress and slapped on sun oil.
The unseasonally hot weather made Martha worry about global warming. It made Eliza smile. This time lastyear half the population had been barricading their doors with sandbags against flooding rivers. Anything had to be better than that.
Eliza watched her niece and nephew play. They were glowing with sun and excitement. ‘Look at their rosy cheeks,’ she sighed adoringly.
‘And muddy knees,’ sighed Martha, her tone noticeably less whimsical. She ran outside and rubbed some more sun cream on to Mathew’s face, then scooped Maisie up into her arms. Maisie let out a wail of defiance. She wanted to stay and play with her brother and Dog.
‘Is this Bircher muesli difficult to make?’ asked Eliza thoughtfully. ‘It’s delicious.’ She wasn’t exactly sure what Bircher muesli was.
Martha flushed with pride, unused to compliments. Not that Michael didn’t appreciate her, of course he appreciated her, it’s just once you’d been together as long as they had you got out of the way of paying compliments. ‘It’s very easy. Just buy a batch of muesli, get a good-quality one, packed with grains, fruit and nuts. It’s worth adding extra nuts to a shop-bought one. Pour a cup of cream and a cup of milk over it and refrigerate it overnight. It’s especially nice served with kiwi. I’m sure you’ll have most of the ingredients in your cupboard.’
No, actually, Eliza had absolutely none of these ingredients in her cupboard. She did most of her grocery shopping on an ad hoc basis at the local garage shop. Eliza rarely visited supermarkets; she hated them with a passion. The frustration began almost as soon as she drove into the car park. She rarely drove anywhere, as her battered, ancient Morris Minor was so unreliable. However, herdread of getting on and off buses with huge shopping bags was greater than her dread of trailing oil up London roads, so she did take the car to the supermarket if she really had to go there. Annoyingly, it was almost impossible for legitimate shoppers to find a space because so many commuters from out of town chose to drive to the supermarket, park their cars and then catch the Tube into the centre of town.
Even if she did find a space, there was the bloody trolley to contend with. She loathed the fact that the trolley couldn’t be released from its captivity unless you paid a pound for the privilege. Eliza remembered the time when these things were free. Nothing in life was free now, not even going to the loo. Eliza never had a pound coin, although she did wish that she were the type of woman who always had the correct change. And, of course, after she had run about trying to buy a packet of chewing gum with a twenty-pound note to get a pound coin, and finally secured a trolley, she always discovered that she’d selected the one with the cranky, wobbly wheel. A trolley with suicidal tendencies that wanted to dash across an aisle and throw itself under another trolley.
Then there were the shoppers. Eliza had more or less come to terms with the fact that shopping in supermarkets meant that she was bound to encounter the oddball who insisted on taking six items through the five-items-or-less till. Which didn’t necessarily have to be a problem, but did turn into one if the assistant was an oddball too, and insisted on voiding the transaction and sending the customer through another till. The old dears who were slow, the drunks who were smelly, the Filipinohousekeepers who were hysterical, the Mediterranean au pairs who were exhausted, were all an inevitable part of Eliza’s shopping experience. It all bored her.
Usually.
But now Eliza wanted to make muesli. She was sure that making muesli was where she should be as a person.
So it was with some reluctance and great trepidation that Eliza muttered, ‘I think I might go to the supermarket.’
‘Come with us. We always go on a Saturday afternoon,
The unseasonally hot weather made Martha worry about global warming. It made Eliza smile. This time lastyear half the population had been barricading their doors with sandbags against flooding rivers. Anything had to be better than that.
Eliza watched her niece and nephew play. They were glowing with sun and excitement. ‘Look at their rosy cheeks,’ she sighed adoringly.
‘And muddy knees,’ sighed Martha, her tone noticeably less whimsical. She ran outside and rubbed some more sun cream on to Mathew’s face, then scooped Maisie up into her arms. Maisie let out a wail of defiance. She wanted to stay and play with her brother and Dog.
‘Is this Bircher muesli difficult to make?’ asked Eliza thoughtfully. ‘It’s delicious.’ She wasn’t exactly sure what Bircher muesli was.
Martha flushed with pride, unused to compliments. Not that Michael didn’t appreciate her, of course he appreciated her, it’s just once you’d been together as long as they had you got out of the way of paying compliments. ‘It’s very easy. Just buy a batch of muesli, get a good-quality one, packed with grains, fruit and nuts. It’s worth adding extra nuts to a shop-bought one. Pour a cup of cream and a cup of milk over it and refrigerate it overnight. It’s especially nice served with kiwi. I’m sure you’ll have most of the ingredients in your cupboard.’
No, actually, Eliza had absolutely none of these ingredients in her cupboard. She did most of her grocery shopping on an ad hoc basis at the local garage shop. Eliza rarely visited supermarkets; she hated them with a passion. The frustration began almost as soon as she drove into the car park. She rarely drove anywhere, as her battered, ancient Morris Minor was so unreliable. However, herdread of getting on and off buses with huge shopping bags was greater than her dread of trailing oil up London roads, so she did take the car to the supermarket if she really had to go there. Annoyingly, it was almost impossible for legitimate shoppers to find a space because so many commuters from out of town chose to drive to the supermarket, park their cars and then catch the Tube into the centre of town.
Even if she did find a space, there was the bloody trolley to contend with. She loathed the fact that the trolley couldn’t be released from its captivity unless you paid a pound for the privilege. Eliza remembered the time when these things were free. Nothing in life was free now, not even going to the loo. Eliza never had a pound coin, although she did wish that she were the type of woman who always had the correct change. And, of course, after she had run about trying to buy a packet of chewing gum with a twenty-pound note to get a pound coin, and finally secured a trolley, she always discovered that she’d selected the one with the cranky, wobbly wheel. A trolley with suicidal tendencies that wanted to dash across an aisle and throw itself under another trolley.
Then there were the shoppers. Eliza had more or less come to terms with the fact that shopping in supermarkets meant that she was bound to encounter the oddball who insisted on taking six items through the five-items-or-less till. Which didn’t necessarily have to be a problem, but did turn into one if the assistant was an oddball too, and insisted on voiding the transaction and sending the customer through another till. The old dears who were slow, the drunks who were smelly, the Filipinohousekeepers who were hysterical, the Mediterranean au pairs who were exhausted, were all an inevitable part of Eliza’s shopping experience. It all bored her.
Usually.
But now Eliza wanted to make muesli. She was sure that making muesli was where she should be as a person.
So it was with some reluctance and great trepidation that Eliza muttered, ‘I think I might go to the supermarket.’
‘Come with us. We always go on a Saturday afternoon,
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