trolley-reading. That woman over there had digestion problems: her trolley had more prunes and bran cereals than was normal. That other woman was bulimic: two apples, one carrot and a box of Milk Tray. This one was cooking dinner for a lover: salmon, a selection of florets on a microwave tray that cost an entire trust fund per pound, tubs of Häagen-Dazs. That couple was happy:mozzarella, tomatoes, avocados, fresh pasta and pesto sauce. That couple was waiting for payday: baked beans, sliced loaf, tinned fruit.
Eliza and Greg never shopped together.
Eliza sighed, wondering if her obsession with other people’s trolleys was healthy. Was it something to do with her intense feelings of jealousy and inadequacy, all brought on by the lack of a suitable husband? The woman with the trust-fund-microwaveable florets was certainly not the type of woman to waste four years – four significant, biological-clock-ticking years – dating a commitment-phobe musician.
Then again, had the floret woman ever had multiple orgasms or made love on a kitchen unit? Had she ever drunk wine out of her lover’s mouth?
Aghhh. Eliza couldn’t, no wouldn’t, think about this now. She picked up a packet of biscuits, then noticed that another brand had a ‘two for one’ offer. She couldn’t choose, and so she eventually put all three packets in her trolley.
Comfort food.
‘How do you do it?’ marvelled Martha, looking at Eliza’s shopping. Despite Eliza’s good intentions to buy fresh fruit and nutritionally valuable products, her trolley was full of biscuits, microwave chips, pizzas, sugary cereals and crisps. ‘How do you manage to keep your figure? And your skin is terrific.’
Martha’s trolley was full of nappies for Maisie; for Mathew there was organic chicken, organic cheese and organic crisps (the only concession to childhood). There were a number of expensive products labelled ‘Tastes sospecial’ for Michael. And whilst Martha knew that these were probably another marketing ploy, she found the Parmesan cheese – with black and white pictures on the packaging of Italian kids eating pasta – irresistible. Michael would love it. Then there were a number of low-fat, low-taste products for herself. Eliza looked at Martha’s groceries and began to doubt her ability to read trolleys like books. Because Martha’s trolley said she was repressed and that she undervalued herself, which simply wasn’t true. Eliza knew Martha was a happily married woman with a fulfilled life. Martha was always saying as much.
The sisters split up. Eliza wanted to stock her cupboards without Martha seeing the full extent of her neglect, and Martha wanted to buy the food for that night’s dinner party and read the headlines of the quality papers.
Martha dawdled in the aisle with magazines and newspapers and started to read the tawdry and tantalizing headlines of the gossipy mags. Were they true, she wondered, or did people make them up so that other people, people like her for instance, felt dissatisfied and provincial? Not that Martha wanted one of those messy lives. She had never broken a rule, let alone a law, in her life. She had never parked in a disabled-driver space, and she paid her TV licence by direct debit. She was a law-abiding, upstanding citizen.
Eliza wondered if there was a single person in the whole world who had never stolen anything at all. She asked herself this question as she watched a well-dressed man in his forties slip a can of furniture polish under his coat. What an odd choice of booty. Eliza decided not to report him to the burly-looking security guard; it was probably amid-life crisis thing, so why bother? Besides which, the burly-looking security guard elicited absolutely no sympathy in Eliza’s heart; he looked bored and aggressive. Whereas the man with the furniture polish now in his inside pocket looked excited and pathetic. Eliza started to list mentally all the things she’d ever stolen: biscuits and pens from
Eliza and Greg never shopped together.
Eliza sighed, wondering if her obsession with other people’s trolleys was healthy. Was it something to do with her intense feelings of jealousy and inadequacy, all brought on by the lack of a suitable husband? The woman with the trust-fund-microwaveable florets was certainly not the type of woman to waste four years – four significant, biological-clock-ticking years – dating a commitment-phobe musician.
Then again, had the floret woman ever had multiple orgasms or made love on a kitchen unit? Had she ever drunk wine out of her lover’s mouth?
Aghhh. Eliza couldn’t, no wouldn’t, think about this now. She picked up a packet of biscuits, then noticed that another brand had a ‘two for one’ offer. She couldn’t choose, and so she eventually put all three packets in her trolley.
Comfort food.
‘How do you do it?’ marvelled Martha, looking at Eliza’s shopping. Despite Eliza’s good intentions to buy fresh fruit and nutritionally valuable products, her trolley was full of biscuits, microwave chips, pizzas, sugary cereals and crisps. ‘How do you manage to keep your figure? And your skin is terrific.’
Martha’s trolley was full of nappies for Maisie; for Mathew there was organic chicken, organic cheese and organic crisps (the only concession to childhood). There were a number of expensive products labelled ‘Tastes sospecial’ for Michael. And whilst Martha knew that these were probably another marketing ploy, she found the Parmesan cheese – with black and white pictures on the packaging of Italian kids eating pasta – irresistible. Michael would love it. Then there were a number of low-fat, low-taste products for herself. Eliza looked at Martha’s groceries and began to doubt her ability to read trolleys like books. Because Martha’s trolley said she was repressed and that she undervalued herself, which simply wasn’t true. Eliza knew Martha was a happily married woman with a fulfilled life. Martha was always saying as much.
The sisters split up. Eliza wanted to stock her cupboards without Martha seeing the full extent of her neglect, and Martha wanted to buy the food for that night’s dinner party and read the headlines of the quality papers.
Martha dawdled in the aisle with magazines and newspapers and started to read the tawdry and tantalizing headlines of the gossipy mags. Were they true, she wondered, or did people make them up so that other people, people like her for instance, felt dissatisfied and provincial? Not that Martha wanted one of those messy lives. She had never broken a rule, let alone a law, in her life. She had never parked in a disabled-driver space, and she paid her TV licence by direct debit. She was a law-abiding, upstanding citizen.
Eliza wondered if there was a single person in the whole world who had never stolen anything at all. She asked herself this question as she watched a well-dressed man in his forties slip a can of furniture polish under his coat. What an odd choice of booty. Eliza decided not to report him to the burly-looking security guard; it was probably amid-life crisis thing, so why bother? Besides which, the burly-looking security guard elicited absolutely no sympathy in Eliza’s heart; he looked bored and aggressive. Whereas the man with the furniture polish now in his inside pocket looked excited and pathetic. Eliza started to list mentally all the things she’d ever stolen: biscuits and pens from
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