Imagine the worst thing in the world. Nope, it’s not being stuck in a lift with Taylor Swift and her high-school-clique-turned-super-white feminist squad. It’s worse.
Sainsbury’s. Saturday morning.
Hell on earth.
Supermarkets are bad enough at the best of time. Those who just wander around, not sure what to put in their trolley next: this isn’t a clothes shop. You can impulse-buy a new oversized T-shirt if you’re a funky, groovy hipster, but you don’t impulse-buy a salami or a tub of peanut butter. Those who walk around slowly: there is just no need. Self-checkout machines: not only reducing the levels of employment in the country, but just generally being a pain in the arse.
All of this made worse on a Saturday morning.
All of it.
There are queues for the self-checkouts. Just imagine it. Where do you look when you’re in the queue? How are you supposed to juggle all the items you’re holding, for there were no baskets left when you arrived?
There are people stopping just in front of the store entrance trying to work out where to start; couples arguing. It is not a hard task, this. You are just choosing where to start your supermarket journey, not the name of your firstborn child.
There are more staff. People are actually buying lottery tickets. I bet the car park was full too.
But the worst thing about Sainsbury’s on a Saturday morning?
Get there at 12 and you’ll struggle to get anything in the bakery, the one place you wanted to go.
Don’t go to a supermarket on a Saturday. It will end in tears.