‘Have you done the holiday Waitrose shop?’ David asks me one day, we’re about four weeks off our annual jolly to Cornwall.
‘Oh bugger, totally forgot’ I say, opening the computer and clicking on to the Waitrose website, ‘Oh bloody hell.’
‘What is it?’
‘The slots for that day are all full. And for the Saturday. There’s not that much point doing one as we’re moving to the hotel on the Friday. We’ll just have to go to the Tesco in Padstow.’
‘I know, i’m sorry, I just completely didn’t think about it. Anyway, we’re only in the cottage for a week this time so we don’t need that much stuff.’
‘Yes. But still.’
I know what he is thinking. One does not merely nip to Tesco in Padstow. It involves queuing for an excessive amount of time to get into the carpark along with half of the home counties in their Range Rovers. Once parked and finally in the store, you can’t move for people called Simon and Fiona braying at each other, and their toothsome blonde children who sort of resemble golden retrievers, if a golden retriever was decked head to toe in Joules. All the olives have gone because Simon and Fiona have wogged off with them in their trolley and all the Tribute has sold out (this is David’s complaint). By the time we finally get to the checkout and stand in a queue of trolleys packed with hummus, olives and kettle chips, not to mention half the aisle of ‘free from’ for little Tabitha, I am becoming increasingly irate because MY holiday diet consists of olives, hummus and kettle chips and there are none left for me. After what feels like an eternity, we arrive back at the cottage to discover that we really haven’t bought much to eat and so we all get back in the car and go to The Cornish Arms, where we queue for an interminable amount of time behind a different set of Simons and Fionas. It’s a vicious cycle.
***Please note, this is not intended to offend any of my friends called Fiona or any of my friends and family from the home counties, of whom I have quite a few; you do not bray, you are normal***