Last week, Mrs Max and I found ourselves in Tesco. Nothing out of the ordinary as, just like everyone else, our Sunday was filled with the urge to swing by the nearest zombie holding-pen that we call supermarkets to fill a trolley with some stuff that we might be able to combine into something resembling a meal, and most stuff we really fancy at that time. This is why it isn't a good idea for people to go food shopping when they're hungry as apparently, you will end up with a trolley-full of Smarties. At least, I would be. However I also wouldn't be, as there are only a tiny number of things that I refuse to try and get used to: taking a bus being high up the list, but one of them is weekend supermarket shopping. I can't stand any supermarket when they're busy; why does the weekend turn the shoppers into the living dead? I mean, if I have a trolley and I want to take my time deciding which brand of Wine Gums I can most easily convince Mrs Max are entirely suitable for a Shepherds Pie, I will dump my trolley out of everyone's way. This is because I'm not five years old and can tell that this will only serve to annoy everyone else. So when everyone else seems quite content with just abandoning theirs in the aisle, it starts to make me want to scream. So, to avoid the frustration, I am simply left near the entrance in the magazine aisle, which I have renamed "The Man Creche". I wait. I read Top Gear or whatever, and am collected once the milk and Tiger Bread have been bought.
