18. If you’re a South African new to the UK and you’re embarking on a spot of supermarket shopping, good luck to you. If you’re a South African new to the UK and you’re embarking on a spot of supermarket shopping
with children, may the force be with you. Failing that, here are my tips for navigating your way through your first shop.
- Don’t bother trying to park anywhere near the entrance of the store. The spaces in front are reserved for the aged, whatever the current politically correct word is for the disabled and The Galaxy Mums. Also, parking far away means you can do your standard 25-point maneuver to get your car into the allotted space without the judging sets of eyes in the queue of cars you’ve held up. You’ll never get that 15 minutes of your life back, you may as well remove the shame of having witnesses to it.
- Car seats unstrapped, child on hip and one in hand, proceed to the trolley bay. Here’s your second vulnerable spot. The trolley bay is confusing for virgin shoppers or the logic-impaired such as myself. You can’t simply pull a trolley out of the bay. They’re all locked together by a single chain and to release one, you’ve got to insert a one pound coin into a slot, which will release the chain and allow you to wrestle a trolley free. This must be why, unlike in SA, there are no bergies on the side of the road here who’ve laid claim to a trolley that started out its life as the property of the local Pick’n Pay. They didn’t have a pound coin. Neither did I. On any given day since I started sharing my bag with my children, it contains, without fail, a packet of baby wipes, a slightly battered nappy, a snack of some description and a random toy. From now, a pound coin will form part of this clutter. No coin means you have to leg it to the supermarket to stand in a queue at customer services to get change and hike back to the trolley bay. Yes you will have to take your children with you. Leaving them locked in the car back in Siberia where it’s parked (even with a window slightly open) was my first thought too, but it’s probably not a good idea. It is a foreign country after all.
- So you’ve got your trolley. You’ve locked and loaded your kids inside it and you’re ready to go. Except you’re going nowhere slowly. Your trolley appears to be a dud. You consider changing it. Don’t. There is definitely something wrong with it. It’s not you. It’s shite. It’s the most badly designed piece of shite ever designed in the history of design. And the worst news? They’re all like that. Every last one. In every single supermarket. Their problem is that they favour one side and automatically veer in that direction, usually the left side I’ve noticed. So you need to counterbalance that by pushing to the right as you steer. I reckon this is the root cause of all the golden oldies and their hip issues. Unfortunately you just have to accept that this is one of those things in life – like a pap smear or doing your tax return. It’s unpleasant but unavoidable. You’ll figure out your own technique in due time. It will always be painful, but you learn to deal.
- Once inside, head for the bakery. Allow your children to choose a treat so you can crab-slide through the aisles as quickly as possible while they focus on noshing. A box of mini-doughnuts usually works. Never, under any circumstances allow them out of the trolley in a shiny new store. Never allow them out of the trolley ever. This is critical. They automatically head straight for the confectionary and toy aisles, which are so enticing they short-circuit your kid’s brains and they become feral little monkeys. You’re left chasing them with your spastic trolley. It’s not dignified. And what’s more, when you are able to corner them; one by the fruit and veg and the other hiding in the photo booth, you can only threaten them quietly with the punishment you will mete out at home. They know as well as you do that your threats are empty and they have all the power here. Subtly pinching them doesn’t work either. They cry, people stare and “mommy pinched me” may be more undignified than your trolley run.
- When you’re looking for over-the-counter pain medication, don’t ask the shop assistant to help. He’ll just direct you to Calpol. Don’t bother asking for Demazin or Stilpane. They don’t stock it. Don’t try to qualify with the question, “Is Calpol the strongest you’ve got? I’m looking for something that makes them drowsy, but is cheap.” He’ll direct you to the in-store pharmacist. You explain that Calpol just isn’t going to cut the mustard, or your daughter’s teeth it appears. The pharmacist suggests you consult your GP. She doesn’t stipulate whether her advice is for you, your children or all three of you. You leave empty-handed convinced her attitude is because you’re South African. It’s the accent. It could also be that your daughter resembles the Joker from the Dark Knight with disturbing smears of jam and sugar all over her face and your son is using your car keys to poke holes in the doughnut box which he explains is a new house for his pet snails. You're not entirely sure.
- Hide your wine under the salad greens in the front compartment of the trolley reserved for flowers and baguettes. I’ve discovered it looks bad to have your son squashed into a corner of the trolley where he’s avoiding a wine bottle up his bum.
- At the checkout, if you wait while each of your items is scanned through, you’ll discover your pile of groceries patiently waiting for you at the end of the counter. You can’t inform the cashier that the packer is MIA. She, like the Medicine-aisle Man, has no idea what you’re talking about. You deduce from doing a quick look around that all the packers appear to be MIA. And then the penny drops. There are no packers. Just like pumping petrol and putting air in your car tyres, you do it yourself. You pack your own groceries. And you’ve got to be quick about it too. The checkout staff whizzes through scanning your groceries like she’s on crack. This means that I inevitably end up with my biscuits crushed by a 2-litre bottle of bleach and my bread always has the faint whiff of fabric softener.
- As you lumber from the store into the parking lot, there’s a noticeable absence. No guy in a striped orange safety vest creeps out from thin air to offer to steer your trolley to your car and help unpack your groceries into your boot. There are no car guards. Not a one. I take back every single curse I uttered under my breath about every car guard I’ve ever hidden from, driven from or pretended not to see.
- Once you’ve loaded up the car, dragged the demon trolley back to its pit, driven home, unpacked your mangled groceries and toasted yourself on your epic shopping achievement, life is good. Until you realise that you’ve forgotten to buy milk and toothpaste for the kids and you meant to get tomatoes for the pasta for dinner. In fact, there’s little you’ve actually bought that you intended to buy. You’ve got to go back tomorrow. Maybe you should try Sainsbury’s? Maybe they have Demazin?
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| Sign should read, "Welcome to Tesco. Our trolleys are crap. We don't care". |
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