Christmas Eve...
This is the day when tradition demands that we visit as many supermarkets as we can, and count the number of customers with a manic fixed grin on their faces!
If you study the Rictus Day syndrome - as we used to in years past, you were able to arrive in the car park and spot the four-by-four being furiously parked, and most of a family of a mother and three children would spill out. The mum was already gesticulating to the children to stay close by. The Rictus is about to kick in, but not quite yet...
On entering the supermarket - we'll make it a Waitrose, but it could be anywhere, except for some of the cheapo budget shops - the grin begins to appear on the mum's face, especially as she can't find her loyalty card to unlock the zapper which is just by the door. A small queue builds up, and a man at the back begins to mutter!
After snatching the zapper from its cradle, (always on the bottom row for some reason), the grin develops into anguished, teeth-baring desperation, as the shopping list is right at the bottom of the voluminous handbag, and the queue for the coffee machine watches with interest as the various contents are spread all over the empty shopping trolley. The list is discovered tucked into another purse the size of a Pears Cyclopaedia.
The Rictus has now extended to the neck muscles, where it will remain for the rest of the shopping extravaganza, and while the children happily inspect all the chocolate stacked up by the first aisle, the quest for comestibles becomes a murderous race rather like the chariot scene in Ben Hur, which by coincidence also has Charlton Heston riding with possibly the first rictus grin ever shown on the wide screen, but there again, he didn't have to brave the fury of Waitrose customers!
So we pass the fruit and vegetable aisle, taking an armful of any salad stuff with a yellow ticket, and the hunt for Manchego and Comte cheese begins in earnest. The various decibels of 'NO NO NO' are heard by other shoppers by the bread shelves as the group passes the pizzas, and the next aisle becomes bereft of Kalamata Olives and Miso Paste.
The grin is now beginning to attract the attention of the staff manning the CCTV cameras, as the trolley enters the final phase of the expedition with a wild-eyed, gasping grimace extending to the carefully knotted Prada scarf, and also now affecting the hands, which have developed claw-like characteristics as the eye-brows contract to a fair Clarke Gable impression, but with additional French accents, and word goes out to the floor staff to check her trolley 'as a precaution'!
That final dash to the self-checkout till ends in a shuddering crash, and the monster bag of crisps, thoughtfully added by one of the children, splits open to the vocal equivalent of the Rictus, which is a sort of strangled shriek, combined with steam-train sound effects!
The scramble is over as the bank card whistles past the machine, and the Rictus is still maintained right up to the door, when there's a momentary lapse, and the shoulder blades start to droop!
That's until the trek back to the four-by-four is categorised as 'Rictus Extra-Violent', when it is discovered that they've forgotten the Tamarind paste...
11 comments:
‘…a murderous race rather like the chariot scene in Ben Hur’
Well, that was my morning coffee down the nose (and a good thing too, since it warned me not to drink any more while reading the rest).
One of your finest, Scrobs: a real Christmas treat!
Ha ha, it all sounds horribly familiar. Merry Christmas, but what is tamarind paste, is it anything like black pudding?
There is a Waitrose at the top end of Hove park… I didn’t even try to drive into the carpark yesterday evening as it seemed to be the place to be.
Happily there was a house directly opposite the entrance; so I parked the old Bristol in the empty driveway and walked in.
I must say everyone inside seemed composed and rather cheerful, and I spent a happy twenty minutes perusing the single malts.
However I was staggered at the amount of rosé wine that was put out on the shelves: so much so that I’ve had to take on board that there has to be men around here drinking the filthy muck. Either that or there’s a legion of alcoholic middle aged women based here abouts.
I have always had a soft spot for a lady with a taste for whisky… they always seem to be remarkable no nonsense types, but I digress.
Wishing you a merry Christmas, wish the Reverend Rodney the same on my behalf and good luck with that bloody donkey. I’m away to start work on the Bendick’s mints.
Thank you, MacH - I hope the coffee didn't cause too much anguish, especially as you may have discovered an antidote/alternative to Beconase...
Tamarind paste is apparently used as a sort of sour/spicy additive to Thai food...
My daughter decided that I needed some when we attacked Waitrose back in October, and I still peer at it on my shelf from time to time!
I think that shop is on an old BT site, which my company yearned for back in the property days, Modo! Like you, I'd avoid Rose as an insufficient embocation, but have to admit that my bottle of Glenmorangie has reduced by a half since a visit last week!
Fr Rodney... Hm... your antennae run deep, and I'm still looking at my list of suspects...
And a Happy Christmas to you and the staff at Wayfarers!
Happy Christmas, one and all, next year will be exceptional, and Easter is not so far away already!
My dear old love, but you are up early this Christmas morning! Are you downstairs in your pyjamas sat on the hearth rug with a hastily opened Escalado game? Maybe Subbuteo..? A pre- breakfast Babycham already opened?
Christmas morning is one of those times where one begins to recall the past… shades and echoes of the past are opened like presents. I will sit looking out onto the garden through the French windows in Patrick’s old green velvet chair (both of which were with him to the end) and drink a cup of Earl Grey and find myself surrounded by ghosts… lovely old ghosts.
I suppose I will do this until the heir or the spare take over.
A Merry Christmas to you my very good friend, and to all!
Did the donkey shit in the church?
I had an exchange with my daughter yesterday that was straight out of a Gavin and Stacey script (see how topical I am?)…
She was having a lift down to Wales (from a friend of mine who’d stayed here for a night)… as she had made plans to stay with her boyfriend.
The plans were made some time ago, but in the interim she has somewhat cooled off from him. Anyway she decided to go through with it… but yesterday before leaving she got all teary and said to me…
‘Oh my god, on New Year’s Eve you’ll be eating Chinese takeaway, but I’ll be hundred’s of miles away… it’s not just the spring rolls… I’ll miss you as well.’
I had an amusing exchange with my dear friend Dr. Cuddler this morning. He was telling me that he had pulled a muscle in his back while rowing yesterday….
I read the text message as rowing (as in arguing).
This led to an hilarious series of misunderstandings.
When I asked him what had he been up to, to pull a muscle while rowing… he said that he hadn’t warmed up before.
Puzzled, I asked what he did to warm up..? Did he hit the kids?
I think equally puzzled, he replied he did some stretches and running on the spot.
I became terribly confused.
On Christmas Day, I went with my aide de camp Capitaine Gaspard Bastarache to visit Contessa Vera Monfils (who is now 105) on her yacht.
Conversation can become a little bit laboured owing to the fact Contessa Vera Monfils is a bit deaf and well away with the fairies…
After a while, Capitaine Bastarache thought he might fill up some time by talking about what was on television that evening… so he mentioned that he was thinking of watching the situation comedy ‘Gavin and Stacey’ later. the Contessa joined in the conversation but for some reason thought that the Capitaine was talking about ‘Downton Abbey’, which I believe was on the ITV. Neither of them realised the error throughout the conversation.
The Contessa was saying that the old lady (by which she meant the actress Maggie Smith) had died recently. But as it happened one of the elderly actresses, Margaret John, who played Doris in ‘Gavin and Stacey’ had also died.
So the Capitaine said… ‘Oui, was she not the Welsh next door neighbour? To which I could see a puzzled Contessa trying to think how Lady Violet Crawley could be mistaken for a Welsh next-door neighbour…
So she said, ‘I don’t think she was Welsh Capitaine’… to which he replied… ‘But of course she was, as she lived in the Barry Island’.
The Contessa accept this as true despite some misgivings, as she knows the Capitaine to be the most reliable of men.
‘Well in that is the case, I can’t say that I’m so impressed by her accent.’
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