NOT PACKING BUT DROWNING

By the time you’re reading this the country may have descended into chaos, or further chaos depending on how you view things. 

Post-election, the markets may have crashed. The power may have been switched off. Everything may remain the same. Who knows what’s going to happen?  

One thing's for certain though: this weekend I will brave the unpredictable weather and the car park of doom on a trip to Tesco’s on Broughton Road. 

One thing about this trip is uncertain: who will be packing the bags. This is not a euphemism. Over the past couple of weeks there have been various keen bag-packers giving their time for a variety of worthy charities.

One week there was a pack of boy scouts collecting for some sort of woggle shortage relief fund. The next week there were students looking to raise money to go off to an exotic country to carry a boat over a mountain. 

Before I go on, I would like to point out that I fully support their endeavours and I’m happy to give some money (if I can find any change) in exchange for their help to pack the bags. 

The trouble is that, like me, they’re not very good at packing.

I expect every family has their own bagging procedures. Some will descend into a free for all; others will have it all carefully orchestrated and organised. Mrs LHTD falls into the latter category. She often barks orders at me because I’m failing to cupboard-coordinate all the bought goods due to the immense pressure of getting everything in the bags before the next customer’s goods have reached the end of the conveyor belt.

I once replied to one of Mrs LHTD’s barks with, ‘Unexpected item in the bagging area’. It was as successful as milk cartons packed on top of half-a-dozen eggs. 

The weekly food shop is already complicated enough. Trying to juggle pineapples to entertain the Little LHTD whilst steering a trolley away from the backside of a fellow Broughtonian is a tricky business. The introduction of friendly bag-packers overcomplicates this already stressful environment, and I’m left shouting like the women in The Shawshank Redemption, ‘Make sure you double-bag’.

As the groceries start to pile up, the volunteers work tirelessly to keep up with the checkout assistant, but all I can see are the bags getting fuller by the second. What they don’t know is that I’m the one who has to carry the bags up several flights of stairs and there’s no way the Little LHTD will allow me  time to repack the bags when we get to the car. 

When the transaction is complete, I wish the volunteers good luck and make a contribution to their funds. My arms are already aching at the thought of carrying all the bags up to the flat, but there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. You have to break a few eggs to make an omelette and if the bags split and my arms snap, at least it will all have been for a good cause.

Quod erat sera sera. The future’s not ours to see. I know I'll be back in Tesco’s next week and the bags will need to be packed. Beyond that, anything could happen.