Trolleyed...

Time for a gripe! This one aimed at people in supermarket queues. Specifically, people who stand behind me in supermarket queues who, for some reason, think that they can get the whole queue moving just a little bit faster by encroaching on my space or pushing their shopping trolley into my legs. Oh, how I wish I regularly used the highly regarded Jacksons on Princes Avenue so beloved of Ben and Bazza, where everyone gets along famously, the till staff are incredibly patient even if you pay with a million 5 pence pieces and the whole vibe is Woodstock circa 1969, rather than the Altamont of the places I frequent. Oh yes, it's like the Hells Angels are running the show and I'm Meredith Hunter. It starts, usually, with the sound of breathing in the ear and the feeling that someone is closer than they should be. Then, before you've even had chance to look round, they're clambering up your back, desperate to get to one of those next customer conveyor belt dividers and attempting to push you closer to the person in front of you, who's still packing their bags and yet to pay with their debit card - they don't want you within easy vision of their pin number digit dance, do they? So it's at this point you have to dig in your heels - a bit like being at a gig when the posse of let me through, I have to be at the front urchins who turn up ten minutes after the gig has started demand the finest vantage point in the house - because if you do give an inch, Mr and Mrs We Must Be Served Immediately Because We've Got Fuck All Else To Do With Our Day But We Like To Create The Impression That We're Very, Very Busy will take a fucking mile. So you brace yourself. And then it comes. The trolley. Gently, at first, just grazing the back of your legs and accompanied by a few tuts. But then they realise you ain't moving. And the attack intensifies. Bang, bang, bang goes the trolley, bruise, bruise, bruise goes my leg. But why me? And why, oh why, oh why, do I just stand and take it? Why don't I turn round and tell them to fuck off? Because, dear reader, I refuse to be drawn into this pointless battle for check-out bragging rights. I'm a lover, not a supermarket bully. But one day I will retaliate because it's all boiling up inside and some poor old duffer, no doubt wearing a co-ordinated trouser and blazer combo and carrying a box into which he had planned to carefully order, size and grade his purchases before removing them when he gets to his car to place them in his boot tidy, will end up eating that trolley he's been so keen to try and force into my legs. Aaaarrrggggh. I hate them and their trolleys of mass destruction. They're driving me mad. Mad, I tells you.
Or is it me that's got the problem?

Listening: The Holloways - Two Left Feet.

supermarket, checkout, anger management, queues