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The Circumnavigation of the Modern Super Market
A cautionary tale by Fergus McNeill.
It is a curious thing, but this whole business reminded me of that
lively evening back in Africa when I had to tiptoe across a sandbar
littered with crocodiles. Big fellows they were, too. Of course, I did
not have my revolver with me that time, and in any event this was only a
visit to the premises of J. Sainsbury esq, albeit my first.
Naturally, you will be wondering what possessed a gentleman to
patronize such an impersonal and unsuitable establishment but I can
assure you that I was compelled to do so by a bizarre series of events
that concluded with my entire domestic staff rendered unconscious.
Before my man Hodges fainted dead away, he confessed in a faltering
voice that we no longer kept an account with the village grocer and that
the only hope of securing provisions lay in what he referred to as a
“super market”.
Under normal circumstances, I would have never have entertained the
idea of “shopping” – ghastly word – certainly not with so many perfectly
edible animals roaming the estate. However, I remembered that the
Wilberforce-Smythes intended to call that same evening and fancied that
little Jenny might turn her nose up at Shetland pony sandwiches. I did
caution her against giving them names, but we all know how wilful these
youngsters can be.
Clearly, there was nothing for it but to mount an expedition.
Immediately, I was faced with my first problem – what was appropriate
attire for such an excursion? I consulted “Haverstock’s Compendium of
Sartorial Elegance for All Occasions” but drew a blank. The closest
approximation was “Correct attire for touring unfamiliar areas of the
Continent” and, as luck would have it, the recommended tweeds and
walking boots proved quite suitable for the job.
I elected to take the larger Jaguar, which started at the first
attempt, and roared down through the village. My next challenge was to
establish the whereabouts of Mr. Sainsbury’s place of business, but my
luck was in as I fortuitously knocked Jones the postman off his bike
while negotiating one of the blind corners on the Underminster Road.
After assuring the poor fellow that he had not damaged my motor car, I
quizzed him for directions to the “super market” Hodges had alluded to.
Gamely struggling to his feet, Jones indicated the most direct route
and, once we had staunched his bleeding, I bade him farewell and was
away once more.
At first, I thought I must be mistaken. As a gentleman, one is
unprepared for the immense nature of these so-called “retail parks”.
Fearing that Jones’ directions were confused by his injuries, I was on
the point of driving away when I noticed the fellow Sainsbury’s name,
written large and rather tactlessly, across the front of a soul-less
grey building. Judging by the size of the place, this chap had obviously
done well for himself, but the plethora of gaudy orange signs were in
extremely poor taste, the tell-tale mark of first generation money.
Driving past the tiresome ranks of modern vehicles, I swept into a
large, convenient area outside the main doors and parked without
incident. Noticing many people of indeterminate class milling around, I
thought it wiser to remove the keys from the ignition and even took the
precaution of instructing a loitering market worker to keep waifs and
strays away from the Jaguar.
Passing within, I thought I had strayed into the warehouse stores and
spent several minutes searching for the shopkeeper’s counter before I
realized that the whole place seemed to operate on some wretched
self-service basis. Finding this intolerable, I resolved not to lower
myself to the level of the other miserable patrons. Quickly locating the
nearest member of staff, a discourteous youth sporting an unsightly
clip-on tie and third-degree acne, I asserted my authority and
instructed him to appropriate the items I desired. Seemingly baffled by
my orders, it took him several moments to get the gist, but a couple of
swift whacks from my walking stick finally stirred him into action.
At this point I must confess that my inquisitive nature got the
better of me and I followed my reluctant aide into the garish aisles,
curious to see what went on in the heart of such an objectionable place.
Never have I seen so much luridly coloured plastic in one place.
Utilitarian shelves arranged without the slightest respect for the
values of taste and style, piled high with gaudy packages… vulgar signs
shrieking their gibberish with no thought for punctuation or grammar,
and everywhere stained by the unholy glow of fluorescent tube lighting.
My assistant seemed untroubled by this riot of bad taste, but I saw that
he was a simple soul, clearly content to push his little wheeled basket
around the labyrinth that was his workplace.
I instructed the poor devil to seek me out when his task was
completed and, taking an apple from a huge pile, set out on my own to
explore.
I had been walking for some time when, turning another corner, I
finally came upon something that I recognized. There before me, stood a
fishmonger’s counter. I made my way to the front and cleared my throat
to get the apron-clad youth’s attention. Sadly, the unfortunate fellow
had some sort of hearing problem and I had to rap him on the shoulder
several times with my stick before he turned to me. At this point, quite
inexplicably, several nearby hoi-polloi started speaking in their
charming regional accents, waving small scraps of paper that appeared to
be raffle tickets. I was quite patient with them but eventually had to
shoo them away with a large trout as this was, after all, a fish counter
and not a tom bola.
Using my stick to instruct the deaf lad, I indicated that I wished to
sample some of his smoked salmon. He went through some unnecessary
rigmarole involving a bag and a label before handing it to me but, after
trying a few mouthfuls I concluded that it wasn’t up to much and handed
it back to him. The poor fellow was obviously quite shaken to discover
that his wares were below par as he started babbling about something or
other, but I sympathetically told him to buck up and say no more about
it.
By this time, I had grown weary of the not-so-super market experience
and elected to wait in my motor car where, I was sure, my youth and his
basket of provisions would have the sense to seek me out. Retracing my
steps, I picked up a newspaper and another apple and made my way through
the doors towards my vehicle.
At this point, my story took a turn that I still do not fully
understand. A youth in a dark jumper and an ill-fitting peaked cap
accosted me, droning on about unpaid goods or some such nonsense – his
mastery of the Queen’s English was tenuous to say the least – and
invited me to accompany him “into the store”. I did not like the look of
him and declined, politely but firmly, to visit his store room or any
other of his haunts. The poor fellow nearly lost his front teeth when he
impudently laid his hand on me but, not wishing to cause a scene in the
presence of ladies, I merely gave him a harmless right to the stomach
and left him quietly propped up against the base of a large bland
fountain near the entrance.
I returned to the Jaguar, dismissed the man I had engaged to guard
it, and enjoyed a pipe while I read the Times obituaries. In no time at
all, the clip-on tie was at my window and I gave him permission to place
my provisions in the back seat. I tipped the poor creature more
generously than he deserved, especially as I had to roar “On account!”
at him several times before he stopped bleating on about the bill. I
later discovered that most of the two dozen eggs he had given me turned
out to be broken, but that may have been due to the inexplicable bumps
on all the roads leading in and out of the place. Confounded things give
you quite a jolt – I very nearly had to slow down.
That evening, I recounted my adventures to the Wilberforce-Smythes
and we all had a jolly good laugh at the peculiar people who inhabit
such strange places as these super markets. Before retiring for the
evening, I left instructions for my man Hodges that our account with the
village grocer was to be reopened at his earliest convenience, as I have
no intention of returning to Mr. Sainsbury’s establishment – the fellow
did not even have the common decency to show his face when I visited his
premises and that is a black mark against anyone in my book.
In summary, I would advise against even one visit to such a place.
While the experience is undeniably new, it is not pleasant, and
gentlemen of taste would be better served by a good safari or a trip to
the Himalayas. However, if exceptional circumstances force your hand, I
would counsel you to adopt the same approach as you would in any other
uncivilised place: accept no backchat from the natives and carry a
sidearm at all times. Good luck to you all.
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