Carol’s Column

Dead fish don't talk back

I was run over last week.

Flattened by a reckless male driver who turned a corner without looking. Fortunately, other than a bruised knee, I remained in one piece.

He wasn't abusive. On the contrary, he was rather charming.

"Awfully sorry," he yelled through his drooping moustache and buck teeth. "Had a spot of trouble with the steering."

Quick as a flash, he rescued me from beneath the mound of pink and yellow toilet paper and wheeled his trolley away with a whistle and a wave.

Before I could shoot off, I was jostled in the derriere.

It was hopeless, sweat broke out on my forehead as slowly I felt myself manoeuvred into a corner. I pushed with all my might and made one massive effort to keep my place. In vain.

The situation was desperate. Muscles bulged and then the rear trolley made the supreme effort and overtook, edging me into oblivion.

Is this how I'm doomed to spend the rest of my life, I agonised to myself, wedged tight between the dog food and the sanitary pads (maternity size)?

The victor, a colossus of a woman, weighing at least 100kg, pushed her trolley through the gap and disappeared.

Of course, I'd been unlucky getting a trolley with a defective right front wheel, but then I couldn't really grumble, I was lucky getting a trolley at all.

Almost crushed by a pile of falling sugar-coated cornflakes, I made my way to the eggs and cheese.

Near the cold meat I was accosted by a Muhammad Ali-like figure in crimpelene drag. She waved a sausage-speared fork under my nose. "Try this special offer — the original meatless sausage, it's better than the real thing."

I declined, as I did the specials on the toothpaste for false teeth and the quail's eggs.

An hour later, 15 minutes shopping and three quarters of an hour waiting in the queue, I reached the till.

"Morning," I smiled brightly.

Eyes swivelled. "Trying to be funny hey?" she growled from clenched teeth.

Not another word was said as she rung up the order and took my life's savings.

Whatever happened to the friendliness of the little, old-fashioned shopkeeper down the road, who knew your name and enjoyed a little chat?

Yesterday, I found one, a little shop tucked between two neon-lit emporiums.

A fish shop and one guy behind the counter with a large, welcoming smile. I was enchanted.

This was service as I remembered it from the good old days.

"Can I help you, Modom?" he smiled.

"I'd like a kilo of kingklip, please."

With care, he selected a piece and placed it on his scale. I couldn't help noticing it looked distinctly yellow.

"Er, don't you think the fish looks a little old?" I remarked.

His eyebrows beetled and the veins in his forehead bulged. He leapt on to the counter, bellowing: "You think I'm a cheat? You think I give you dead fish? This fish was swimming in the sea yesterday. Look, he's talking to you — do dead fish talk?" I'd unleashed a torrent.

Overwhelmed, I paid for the fish and retreated from his shop.

There's something to be said about self-service in a supermarket.

■