Carol’s Column

Who needs a trolley in their life? Me

I WAS run over last week. Flattened by a reckless male driver who turned a corner without looking. Fortunately, other than a bruised elbow and a grazed kneecap, I remained in one piece.

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

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

Quick as a flash, he picked me up from beneath the mound of Superswab absorbent dishcloths and wheeled his trolley away humming "Rule Britannia."

This is positively the last time I ever shop in a supermarket, I thought to myself as I made a lunge for the bargain Fight Tartar toothpaste. My lunge was thwarted by a huge woman who made Clive Weil look like a ballet dancer.

Relentlessly, she pushed her trolley towards the Fight Tartar toothpaste pile and pushed me out of the running.

It was hopeless. Sweat broke out on my newly anti-wrinkle creamed forehead as slowly she wedged me tight against the dog food and the maternity sized sanitary pads.

Then, muscles bulging and derriere wobbling, she grabbed the last four Fight Tartar toothpastes and disappeared like Zola Budd in full flight down the aisle.

I couldn't move. Of course, I'd been unlucky getting a deformed trolley with two splayed front wheels. But even so. Eventually, after some cunning manoeuvring in reverse, I managed to extract myself. And whizzed towards the foaming cleaners where I was almost crushed by some toppling honey coated and raisin enriched all bran cornflakes.

Slowly, I made my way to the cheese and eggs counter. They were on special.

"I wouldn't buy these," advised a little old lady in floral hotpants. "I just saw a cheese walk and I think the eggs are about to hatch. They're not fresh."

Two hours later, after fighting my way down aisles and emerging victoriously with dogfood, foaming cleanser, eight economy packets of chicken pieces and some eyebrow shampoo, I reached the till after standing in a queue for 47 minutes.

"Good morning," I smiled brightly at the till person.

"So what's so good about it?" she growled between clenched teeth and not another word was said as she rung up my order and took my life's savings.

Whatever happened to the little old-fashioned shopkeeper who called you by name and enjoyed a friendly chat about zinnias or the state of the country?

And then, only yesterday, I found a tiny shop, tucked between two concrete and neon-lit glass-fronted emporiums.

It was called "Ye Olde Fish Mongrel". A chubby figure stood behind the counter with a welcoming smile on his face.

This was personal service as I remembered it from the days when gob stoppers were three for a cent.

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

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

With infinite care he selected a piece and placed it on his scale. I couldn't help noticing it had curvature of the spine and looked distinctly yellow.

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

The metamorphosis was extraordinary. His eyebrows beetled and the veins on his forehead swelled. He leapt on to the counter bellowing. "You think I'm a cheat? You think I sell you dead fish? This fish was swimming in the sea last night. Look, he's talking to you. Do dead fish talk?"

Overwhelmed by the torrent, I paid for the fish and retreated hastily.

Yes, there's definitely something to be said about self-service in a supermarket.

■