Basket case

Going to the supermarket during the pre-Christmas lull is a reliably depressing affair, although, truth be told, supermarkets are reliably depressing any time of the year. God, I hate them. It’s not just the soulless fluorescent lighting or the fact that you’re forced to wander through aisles of the same 30 brands that have been around since the birth of capitalism. No, it’s the unapologetic waste of it all—the staggering displays of seasonal junk nobody asked for, but apparently now can't live without.

Case in point: an entire section dedicated to Elf on a Shelf. Not just the elf itself, which was creepy enough when it started, but now there’s a whole universe of single-use Elf-themed plastic rubbish that will outlast humanity, including, for some reason, crime scene tape. Crime scene tape. Why? Are these elves breaking and entering now? Is there a tiny elf CSI unit I should be worried about? And why isn’t the tape scaled down to elf-size? Is there a human branch of Elf CSI? Honestly, it’s like they’re not even trying anymore.

Despite my disdain, I have a ritual: I always buy – feel compelled to buy - one of those absurdly large tubes of Twiglets for Christmas, and every year I regret it because, well, Twiglets. Then there are the Walnut Whips, which I consider essential and quite possibly the finest cone shaped chocolate indulgence out there. During lockdown, I bought an entire crate of them only to find they’ve removed the actual walnut as a “cost-saving” measure. But they still print a picture of the walnut on the box, as if it’s there. It’s surely a form of consumer gaslighting. Better to call them Faux-nut Whips and be done with the charade. The woman in front of me at checkout had several boxes, and now I can’t stop thinking about them.

Let’s call her Slow Mabel, for that is who and what she was. She offered to let me go first since I only had a basket, but she was already halfway through unloading her trolley, so I declined. I thanked her for the offer and settled in for what I expected to be a five-minute wait. But of course, that was my first mistake. If I’d known it was going to take longer than it did for me to gather my meagre collection of essentials, I would’ve shoved past her like I was running for a flight. Instead, I resigned myself and indulged my hobby of people-watching.

But why didn’t you use the self-service basket checkout I hear you ask. This was my first thought too, only upon presenting myself at the speedy ten-items-or-less self-checkout I discovered that each station was occupied, one presumes illegally, by a trolley-user, slowly decanting their monthly shop into various bags jammed onto the little weighing area.

The scene was utter chaos: bags spilling, alarms going off, a solitary broken spirted staff member in a branded tabard trying to sort it all out and then just walking away to answer his walkie. Considering my options I decided to join what I thought was a fast moving line at the nearest human-assisted checkout. Seeing this, a teenage Morrisons Minion with a headset approached me and explained that because I only had a few items I should use the basket checkout instead. It would be a lot faster. Given that the self-checkout area was immediately adjacent to where we were standing, and depicted a scene of societal collapse that could have been lifted directly out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, I was a little unsure how to respond. Gesturing at the scrum of trollies beside us that could easily be discerned by anyone with a functioning set of eyeballs, I explained the thought process that had led to me falling into line behind Slow Mabel, the world’s slowest, most indecisive shopper.

“Yes, but the self-checkout is for people with baskets” he said.

“Yes, I understand, but as you can clearly see, we live in a topsy-turvy world where rules no longer apply.”

I didn’t actually say this but decided that I had on the drive home afterwards. In the event I just made a kind of weird non-committal grunt, and he scurried off to price check a bag of reduced onions. Given the choice between the self-checkout mess and Slow Mabel, I stuck with her, figuring how bad could it be?

Mabel, bless her, handled each item like it was a rare artifact—two hands, a contemplative pause, a careful placement on the conveyor belt. Sometimes she’d glance into her trolley as though reassessing her entire grocery list and by extension existence itself. Did she really need a fourth box of Walnut Whips? Could she live without the discounted Applewood cheddar? This went on for what felt like an age, my impatience growing to the point I feared I might bleat out something regrettable. Meanwhile, the woman behind me huffed audibly, then abandoned our line and with it any sense of comradeship to join a different line, one that was moving at a much saner pace. I, however, was committed. I’m always like this in the slow lane; once I’ve picked it, I’m in for the long haul, even if it’s a slog and cars are passing on the outside. It always feels like faulty thinking.

When Mabel finally got to the bagging phase, she added a little bonus performance of eccentric dithering, hunting through her phone for coupons that may or may not exist. She eventually decided against the cheese and about half of the dog treats, prompting a whole new delay as the cashier had to summon Billy, the self-checkout minion from earlier, to return the rejected items. Meanwhile, I’m just standing there, trying to appear unfazed, like I’m not witnessing a grown woman placing Greek yogurt on a conveyor belt like it’s the final of an international chess tournament.

In the end, her haul included three boxes of Walnut Whips, a bushel of coriander, several hundred different kinds of meaty dog treats with terriers on the box, and, inexplicably, not one but two Elf on the Shelf sets with aforementioned crime scene tape and an “Elf in Residence” tree ornament. When she finally finished and turned to thank me for my patience, I nodded graciously as though I hadn’t been mentally picturing where I was going hide her body for the last 20 minutes. She trundled off, leaving me alone at last with my basket of essentials and a newfound appreciation for my life choices.