Supermarket Friday

Friday is supermarket shopping day.

Every Friday I check my cupboards and fridge, plan menus, write a shopping list, drive to the supermarket, push the trolley up and down the aisles, look for bargains, compare prices, queue at the checkout, pack my bags, load them into the car, drive home, unload the car, unpack the bags, put things away in the cupboards and fridge ...

When I am rich I will be able to employ someone to take care of this chore.

But if I hadn't gone to the supermarket today I wouldn't have seen trees clouded with blossom and a bank of daffodils reflecting the sun. I wouldn't have heard an infectious giggle, or an old pop song that took me back to my disco days. I wouldn't have paused by the bakery counter just to enjoy the smell of fresh-baked bread. I wouldn't have smiled at the banter between one of the cashiers and his regular customers. I wouldn't have overheard an intriguing snippet of conversation that is now tucked away in my memory and might - one day - re-appear in a story.

So, although I complain, 'It's Friday again, I'll have to go shopping,' perhaps I will keep doing it - even when I am rich.