Supermarkets turn me into a raging misanthrope. I am never more judgmental than when dodging slow-moving families in the aisles. Artificial food substitutes reach out like glistening fruit arranged on extremely symmetrical trees. There’s the couple towing two listless children who have not one fresh product in their cart. There’s the urge to tap them on the shoulder and plead, You’re not feeding that stuff to your kids, are you? There’s the inclination (all too often indulged) to bail up ladies choosing toilet paper and ask, Have you ever thought of trying the recycled? Because, you know… this stuff is made from trees. (Last time I tried this, she listened politely before saying, ah, but it’s so scratchy, I like soft. “I’m sensitive.” I gave her a smile that was more like a snarl: “Maybe it’s softer. After all, it’s been Pulped Twice.”) There’s the corrosive stench of ‘cleaning’ products pervading the laundry aisle. And through it all there’s the dreary easy-listening music that’s somehow so painful to hear. Once you start hearing the lyrics, it’s a whole world of confusion and grief. If you DO get caught between the moon and New York City, where are you exactly? Are you on some extremely high-flying jumbo jet? Or have you died, and is this what purgatory smells like? And do they really play my favourite song in heaven all night long? Or does it just feel that way.
