Saturday Shopping or, welcome to hell.
And so, as my neighbours began their traditional Saturday persuits of hammering and drilling, I glanced at the clock and decided that 1pm was late enough to sleep in, and I'd better get my behind into gear and visit my own personal hell.
Saturday shopping is probably the only thing on God's green earth that makes we want to kill another human being. Or rather, a few hundred of them.
On Saturday (and especially on Saturday's occuring before bank holidays) the entire population of Boeblingen turns out to the Real supermarket (it's really called that; I guess to differentiate it from imaginary supermarkets) to do their shopping.
Let me spend a few moments relating this, ah, singular experience. Firstly, arriving at the car park, you'll find it absolutely jam-packed with vehicles. They'll be parked in every available space: all the bays will be packed; they'll be parked on corners, in trolley stands, even abandoned in the car wash with engines running. I fully expect to turn up one week and find them stacked on top of each other.
Once you've honked and pushed and sworn your way into a parking space (if you park on a slant, just leave it; if you try to tidy it up somebody'll nick the space) then you can begin the hike across the car park to one of the two entrances (only one actually leads into the store and you'll pick the wrong one), after detouring a couple of miles out of the way to pick up a trolley (you'll not have the right change - a Vietnamese 5000-Dong coin).
Once you're in, the Real (pun intended) fun begins. Firstly you won't be able to find anything because the layout is planned on some infernal scheme only Real are privy to. After a few months, you'll start to get the hang of it - battery acid is next to the baby food, soft drinks are adjacent to the doggy chews; that sort of thing.
As your blood pressure begins to rise, several factors will come into play to thwart your attempts to find what you want and get the hell out as fast as possible. The aisles are not multiples of one trolley width wide. A lot of the time they are slightly less than two trolley widths wide, and of course with the trolleys being wedge-shaped to start with, this can lead to some interesting logistical problems, usually solved by bracing one foot against a post and pulling hard.
But that's just the thin end of the wedge, so to speak.
Secondly. because Real don't believe in cleaning (the floors are absolutely filthy, there is abandoned food scattered all over the place, spilled liquid is left unheeded to congeal) you are left having to dodge round odd substances on the floor and wondering why your hand has idly alighted on, say, an abandoned block of lard (opened) instead of packet soup mix.
Thirdly, there's the human factor. What posesses people to bring their children with them? How can that ever be a good thing? They orbit the trolley, screaming and crying and wiping melted stuff everywhere, until their parents lose their cool and start shouting. Or as a precautionary measure they're made to feel important by being allowed to have one of those mini-trolleys. But adults can't see these because they're, well, mini; so we get bloody shins as we belt into them.
If the children are bad, the adults are worse. Because of the sheer number of people crammed into this store (fire regulations be damned!), tempers are already flaring. What we don't need is people simply leaving their trolleys in the middle of the aisle while they go off to compare prices. Or allowing their family to block up the entire thoroughfare. As traffic begins to back up, with rows of abandoned trolleys and only one stream moving in either direction, you'll find yourself stuck behind some old lady who is already moving slowly and is beginning to slow down. Desparately, you begin to look for an overtaking opportunity but there isn't one; suddenly the old lady stops abruptly to look at the price of axle stands and the crash-crash-crash of jack-knifing trolleys behind you echoes throughout the store.
As if dirty floors, spilled produce, abandoned food, screaming children and inconsiderate adults wasn't enough, Real themselves actively go out of their way to make things difficult. They'll put the slowest cashier in the shop on the express till. You'll turn the corner into the cheese aisle and lo - a shop assistant will be shelf stacking with two huge steel bins blocking two thirds of the aisle. Why on earth they can't do this at night?
Having battled your way through the shop proper, and selected a suitably sexy checkout chick, you'll either find she's so slow that some of your shopping has in fact exceeded its Best Before date before you get to the till, or you'll get into some mad competition with her in which she'll try to scan things through faster than you can pack. Then, when she's given you the grand total and is sat examining her nails and waiting for cash, you'll be manhandling 4 carrier bags worth of shopping (having only bought 2 carrier bags), trying to fish out your money and holding closed a huge tear in one of the bags which is threatening to drop a glass jar of joghurt on the floor.
Once back in the carpark, having returned your trolley and getting your 5000-Dong coin back, you'll have to negotiate the mad rush of exiting vehicles before beginning a quartering search of the car park for your own car (whose exact location you will have forgotten: was it over by the car wash? or did I come on the bus?), and then elbow your way into the traffic and fight your way home through town.
And you get to do it all again next weekend.
And you'll have forgotten the milk.
And so, as my neighbours began their traditional Saturday persuits of hammering and drilling, I glanced at the clock and decided that 1pm was late enough to sleep in, and I'd better get my behind into gear and visit my own personal hell.
Saturday shopping is probably the only thing on God's green earth that makes we want to kill another human being. Or rather, a few hundred of them.
On Saturday (and especially on Saturday's occuring before bank holidays) the entire population of Boeblingen turns out to the Real supermarket (it's really called that; I guess to differentiate it from imaginary supermarkets) to do their shopping.
Let me spend a few moments relating this, ah, singular experience. Firstly, arriving at the car park, you'll find it absolutely jam-packed with vehicles. They'll be parked in every available space: all the bays will be packed; they'll be parked on corners, in trolley stands, even abandoned in the car wash with engines running. I fully expect to turn up one week and find them stacked on top of each other.
Once you've honked and pushed and sworn your way into a parking space (if you park on a slant, just leave it; if you try to tidy it up somebody'll nick the space) then you can begin the hike across the car park to one of the two entrances (only one actually leads into the store and you'll pick the wrong one), after detouring a couple of miles out of the way to pick up a trolley (you'll not have the right change - a Vietnamese 5000-Dong coin).
Once you're in, the Real (pun intended) fun begins. Firstly you won't be able to find anything because the layout is planned on some infernal scheme only Real are privy to. After a few months, you'll start to get the hang of it - battery acid is next to the baby food, soft drinks are adjacent to the doggy chews; that sort of thing.
As your blood pressure begins to rise, several factors will come into play to thwart your attempts to find what you want and get the hell out as fast as possible. The aisles are not multiples of one trolley width wide. A lot of the time they are slightly less than two trolley widths wide, and of course with the trolleys being wedge-shaped to start with, this can lead to some interesting logistical problems, usually solved by bracing one foot against a post and pulling hard.
But that's just the thin end of the wedge, so to speak.
Secondly. because Real don't believe in cleaning (the floors are absolutely filthy, there is abandoned food scattered all over the place, spilled liquid is left unheeded to congeal) you are left having to dodge round odd substances on the floor and wondering why your hand has idly alighted on, say, an abandoned block of lard (opened) instead of packet soup mix.
Thirdly, there's the human factor. What posesses people to bring their children with them? How can that ever be a good thing? They orbit the trolley, screaming and crying and wiping melted stuff everywhere, until their parents lose their cool and start shouting. Or as a precautionary measure they're made to feel important by being allowed to have one of those mini-trolleys. But adults can't see these because they're, well, mini; so we get bloody shins as we belt into them.
If the children are bad, the adults are worse. Because of the sheer number of people crammed into this store (fire regulations be damned!), tempers are already flaring. What we don't need is people simply leaving their trolleys in the middle of the aisle while they go off to compare prices. Or allowing their family to block up the entire thoroughfare. As traffic begins to back up, with rows of abandoned trolleys and only one stream moving in either direction, you'll find yourself stuck behind some old lady who is already moving slowly and is beginning to slow down. Desparately, you begin to look for an overtaking opportunity but there isn't one; suddenly the old lady stops abruptly to look at the price of axle stands and the crash-crash-crash of jack-knifing trolleys behind you echoes throughout the store.
As if dirty floors, spilled produce, abandoned food, screaming children and inconsiderate adults wasn't enough, Real themselves actively go out of their way to make things difficult. They'll put the slowest cashier in the shop on the express till. You'll turn the corner into the cheese aisle and lo - a shop assistant will be shelf stacking with two huge steel bins blocking two thirds of the aisle. Why on earth they can't do this at night?
Having battled your way through the shop proper, and selected a suitably sexy checkout chick, you'll either find she's so slow that some of your shopping has in fact exceeded its Best Before date before you get to the till, or you'll get into some mad competition with her in which she'll try to scan things through faster than you can pack. Then, when she's given you the grand total and is sat examining her nails and waiting for cash, you'll be manhandling 4 carrier bags worth of shopping (having only bought 2 carrier bags), trying to fish out your money and holding closed a huge tear in one of the bags which is threatening to drop a glass jar of joghurt on the floor.
Once back in the carpark, having returned your trolley and getting your 5000-Dong coin back, you'll have to negotiate the mad rush of exiting vehicles before beginning a quartering search of the car park for your own car (whose exact location you will have forgotten: was it over by the car wash? or did I come on the bus?), and then elbow your way into the traffic and fight your way home through town.
And you get to do it all again next weekend.
And you'll have forgotten the milk.
