July 5, 2008

Crazed old ladies: We all know the kind.

Early sixties, an insane glare, huge knitted jumpers whatever the weather, jogging pants, genuine 1980s trainers, long greasy grey hair tied up in a scruffy bun, musty odour, and Deidre Barlow glasses. And chin hairs. And a faint, but omnipresent, smell of old wee.

Crazed old ladies ramble. Crazed old ladies do odd things. Crazed old ladies always frequent supermarkets. And the ramblings and antics of crazed old ladies in supermarkets are priceless.

Example du jour:

One crazed old lady is pushing her trolley around Sainsbury's* in Prenton, Wirral, this busy Saturday lunchtime.

Getting in the way of busy couples and families with better things to do, she ambles from one aisle to the next, scratching said chin hairs and greasy grey bun. Scouring the bargain shelf/cut price corner, she pokes at the dented tins and bags of browning lettuce with her witch's finger, examining the yellow reduced price stickers, muttering: "Wednesday's tea..." and "Our Doris** likes that".

She makes her way towards the meat counter to purchase a slice of Billy Bear ham as a treat for her 17 cats. Her huge eyes, magnified by aforementioned Deidre Barlow specs, light up manically.

There they are before her. The Holy Grail of the elderly shopper:

The free samples.

Her trolley zooms toward the plastic tray filled of little tasters of today's special luncheon meat, perched on top of the glass counter. Her warty hand delves in to the tray like a digger into earth. She takes a piece, and promptly stuffs it in to her drooling gurner's mouth.

She chews.

Masticates.

Sucks hard for flavour, with those puckered lips out and her sunken cheeks in.

Her face crumples. She doesn't like it.

Does she swallow anyway?

No.

She spits out the meat in to her hand.

And then...

Then, she plops it back in to the sample tray. Mutters, turns, and walks towards the pet food aisle.

Jaws drop. The horrified Saturday job teen in the apron behind the counter doesn't know what to do. Has anyone noticed?

Yes. Everyone has noticed. Some laugh. Some tut. Some of the more vocal say: "Urgh, you can't do that."

To which she turns, and retorts, in elderly manic Scouse:

"I didn't lyke et, so I puddit bakkk... wassrong widdat?"

People mutter.

"Stop talking aboudd me... shurrup! Stop talking aboudd me," she shrills as she disappears to seek multiple bags of no-frills cat litter.

Does it stop there? No. Of course not.

Everyone she sees in those delightful Sainsbury's orange polo shirts, she tells the story to.

"I jus didn't lyke the 'am, so I puddit back, and now everyone's torkin aboudd me.. I wanna complain to the manager," she protests, as the Saturday staff focus on keeping a straight face whilst their eyes desperately scour for a colleague to palm her off on to.

At the checkout, she has a captive audience. The swivel chair-bound cashier has no choice but to listen to every word as she hurriedly scans items.

"It wer this funny 'am, I took a taste, and I didn't like it, so I puddit bakkk, and everyone started torkin aboudd me," she repeats, again.

And then out comes this absolute gem, so incomprehensibly randomly bizarre and illogical you want to place it in jars and sell it at the bargain shelf:

"No wundah everyone is leaving Brittin. I tell yeh, the world today, the werrrrrld, today."

And off she shuttles, to no doubt tell everyone at the bus stop back as she awaits the three-one-four to Rock Ferry. And once at home, the only terrace in the street without uPVC windows, you just know she will tell each and every one of her 17 cats. One. At. A. Time.

*Jamie Oliver was not present telling every bugger how to feed their kids, healthily, for under a fiver, luckily. And good job too. We were in the mood for smacking someone.

**Doris died in 1999 but is still sat in the front room with her hat on, in front of a slice of Jacob's Ginger Cake.