Suicide in the bathroom. Or possibly not

I’d barely come out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth when I heard a slight clattering sound from behind me. Nothing loud, mind, but distinctly the noise of something falling.

‘What was that?’ asked Danielle.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, ‘just my toothbrush falling into the washbasin.’

She looked at me at quizzically.

‘It may have been a suicide attempt,’ I added, blasé in my indifference to tragedy.

Alas, poor toothbrush. And yet tragedy was avoided.

I wandered back into the bathroom. There, indeed, at the bottom of the basin, lay my toothbrush.

‘No harm done,’ I told Danielle, after a cursory examination. Well, the drop was only a few centimetres. Hardly fatal, even to a toothbrush.

‘I may have been more of a cry for help,’ I added after longer reflection.

I have to say I understand where the toothbrush was coming from. I mean, I’d hate it if I had to do its job. It stands around all day. Often, I don’t even leave it on its charger, so it can’t even get a little of that innocent buzz. Then it has to work inside my mouth, and usually at a time when it’s as unappealing as it ever is. 

I can imagine the toothbrush saying to itself, ‘oh no! Back into that mouth when it’s at its least clean. All those furred-up teeth. The atmosphere of garlic compounded with coffee. Always the same. Outside upper – brush. Inside upper – brush. Inside lower – brush. Outside lower – brush. Mind-numbingly repetitive And he inflicts that routine on me twice a day, day after day, without any trace of pity.’

I can imagine the toothbrush wanting to end it all. Or at least attract some sympathetic attention to is dire destiny. It’s a dismal existence.

On the other hand, maybe I’m just projecting my own sentiments onto it. After all, it was designed for that one job and no other. And it does it well. Maybe when it sees me approaching to brush my teeth, it has a sudden surge of excitement, like our dogs when they see us coming their way with the leads.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ it may be crying internally, ‘I was born for this! Show me those teeth, as grungy as possible, that I can make them shine again.’

Am I misinterpreting its feelings and assuming it shares mine? Because there are certain tasks I find almost unbearable in their dullness. And one of them is brushing my teeth. My toothbrush kindly tells me when I’ve spent half a minute on each area of my teeth – you know, upper outer, upper inner etc. And gives me a longer buzz when two minutes are up, at which point I stop with joy and alacrity. Just two minutes. And yet each time I start, the process ahead seems to stretch before me like some kind of endless purgatory.

It’s the same with refuelling the car. Freezing with the nozzle in the tank – somehow I always forget to put a coat on beforehand, and once I’ve started I refuse to interrupt the process to fetch one – I stand watching the dials spinning around, with the price dial gallingly spinning more quickly than the litres and, like brushing my teeth, it’s a brief task that looks endless at the beginning.

The same is true of having to get on a bus after leaving an aircraft, rather than walking up a jetway straight into the terminal. I find it maddening even though I know the walk will be shorter at the other end. Standing in queues is deadly too, especially at post offices, airports or, worse still, supermarket checkouts. What is it with those people who only seem to remember after they’ve lovingly packed away their purchases, that they actually have to purchase them? And therefore really, really have to find their purse or wallet?

So maybe it is just my feeling of tedium at the toothbrushing task that makes me suspect attempted suicide by my toothbrush. Or at least, an attempted cry for help. Maybe it’s nothing of the sort, and the toothbrush is proud of its work, as we all are when we do a job well, as it undoubtedly does. Even my dentist says so.

It’s possible, I suppose. But that notion does leave a key question unanswered, doesn’t it?

Why did it fling itself off the rim of the washbasin the other night?

On line shopping: the antidote to a modern nightmare. But it needs skill

Isn’t a visit to the supermarket one of the more dismal experiences of life today?

They do try to make it less unpleasant. Wide aisles, plenty of light, background music (though I’m not convinced that tinny music, particularly the kind most supermarkets play, does much to enhance the experience rather than the reverse). However, no attempt to improve the feeling can disguise the fact that essentially it’ s just a long haul, up and down aisles, in an often forlorn search for the most essential items on your list.

Have you noticed that, if you’re after 25 products, you’ll find the first 20 in no time? Then comes you can’t remember whether the cat food is on aisle 16 or 52; by the time you’ve checked them both out, some kind person in a uniform jacket will tell you that it’s actually in aisle 2, back at the other side of the shop. Then you start the same process over again, looking for olive oil.

Having walked the equivalent of three miles up and down the aisles, you will now have 23 of the 25 things you wanted. That’s when another kind assistant will tell you that one is in aisle 4, the other in aisle 76, and even accompany you to both, to establish that both products are out of stock.

A joy of modern life

By this time, the tills that were all invitingly empty when you first arrived, have filled up neatly with six-deep queues, complete with squabbling kids and shoppers who’ve picked up the burst bag of flour or the wrong brand of peanut butter, and need to dash across the shop for a replacement.

You may choose the self-checkout instead. This’s always a wonderful experience. 

“Using your own bag?” it asks you. 

You press “Yes”. 

“Place your bag in the bagging area and press done.” 

You do that. It asks you to do it again. You do. It asks again. You call the assistant over. She turns up just as soon as she’s dealt with the five other people with queries; she swipes her card and taps in a code. The machine returns to normal, looking smugly satisfied, as though there was never a problem in the first place.

“They get a bit temperamental on a Friday,” she says.

“As well all do,” you reply, and then start scanning items again. Until the machine interrupts you once more.

“Using your own bag?” it innocently asks.

It’s the joy of that experience that has made me such a fan of on-line shopping. It’s brilliant. A few clicks and a whole supermarket trip is done. In fact, the really good thing is that it even keeps track of your favourites so that you can produce a whole new order just by whipping through a list of what you most frequently take, and deciding what to include it in this week’s shop.

Sadly, though, it’s not quite as simple as that. You do have to make sure you’re clicking on the right items and choosing the right amounts. I’m not always quite careful enough, as I discovered over the last couple of weeks. I seem to have fallen into the habit of ordering grated cheese all the time, leaving me this week without butter, on the brink of running out of coffee, but with a fridge that looks like a grated cheese repository.

Inside my fridge
It’s not like there’s a shortage of the stuff

The odd thing is that, though I like grated cheese, I’m not that wild about it. Then again, my subconscious may be telling me otherwise.

Or perhaps I just need to learn to handle a computer touchpad more skilfully.

Do women clog up supermarkets?

It’s a well-known fact, or popularly accepted prejudice – the two notions are synonymous – that women, through their tendency to natter endlessly with each other, are the main reason why shopping clogs up, turning the process into a sluggish, nerve-grinding, exasperating nightmare.

What’s certainly true is that there are two schools of thought towards shopping. One views the experience as essentially pleasurable: the retail therapy school, I suppose. The other sees it as a strict necessity, to be borne because it can’t be avoided, but to be completed in the shortest possible time. Retail utilitarians, you might say.

I may have been too heavily influenced by my own strict and wholehearted adherence to the latter school when I tended to associate it more with men, and the former more with women. So when I turned up at the fish counter in that fine establishment made available to the British supermarket-goer by Mr Sainsbury, I was delighted to see only one person there before me, and he a man.

Surely my wait would not be long, I surmised.

And I couldn’t have been further from the truth.

It seems that the man ahead of me had decided to prepare a paella for his “mate” who was coming to visit him and had expressed a taste for that iconic Spanish dish.

Paella. It may be to your taste or it may not.
Either way, it takes a long time. Sadly, mine too, apparently

“He’s quite a cook himself, and I want to show him that I can make something good to eat too.”

When buying food it strikes me that the best thing is to just buy the stuff and go. If you have to talk about it, surely that should only be to ensure that you’re buying the right thing, if you need any reassurance on the matter. Explaining your motives? Isn’t that more appropriate in the presence of a counsellor than a fishmonger?

To my horror, this particular fishmonger seemed genuinely interested. Well, either that or he was an excellent actor. Could anyone possibly really want to know about some stranger’s first excursion into the hardly inspiring realm of paella preparation?

“Will you be cooking this indoors or outdoors, then?”

It turns out that, much to his regret, it would be indoors. “I was tempted to buy one of those gas-jet outdoor stoves, but can one justify the investment for something you’re only going to use a couple of times a year?”

I couldn’t say. But I was hoping was that he’d spare us the full business case.

“Of course, I did think about using the barbecue but, you know, you’ve got no control of the heat, do you?”

By now he’d decided on some of the ingredients he needed.

“I could do with some scallops.”

The fishmonger pointed at a bowl with a small number still left.

“Will you take all of those?”

“Could you weigh them, please, and tell me how much they’d be? I’m also trying to work to a budget here.”

It turned out that the price was bearable, so he had a second weighing including all the stock available, and decided budget would extend to cover the lot.

“And now some cod, please.”

The whole piece? No, this time we were beyond our budgetary constraints. The fishmonger cut the piece in two. Were we taking the bigger piece or the smaller?

Sadly, at this stage I’m unable to remember which he went for. An anaesthetising numbness had seized my brain and, devoted though I am to faithful recording history, I can no longer provide this vital detail of the unfolding Paella saga.

“Thanks very much,” he said cheerfully, picking up his two packets and getting ready to leave.

“Oh, prawns!” he exclaimed, “do you have any prawns?”

They were in a bowl prominently displayed in the ice-decked case. But the fishmonger, the soul of courtesy towards a client, merely pointed them out without making any remark about his apparent blindness.

“I’ll have half a dozen.”

Now it was the fishmonger who suffered an attack of momentary blindness.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to find the price tag. It’s vanished.”

They were both staring bemusedly into the case, so I couldn’t resist intervening.

“It’s not that price tag there, is it?” I asked, “the one stuck in the ice next to the bowl of prawns? The one marked ‘prawns’?”

It turned out to be the right tag. The fishmonger weighed and priced the half dozen.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ll take the lot,” said the customer.

Finally, the three packets had been sealed and priced. The customer had carefully looked through the display case and clearly decided there was nothing else he needed. He picked up his bags and started to move away.

“Have you got the San Miguel to go with the paella?” asked the fishmonger.

Oh, Lord. There followed another long and highly-informed conversation on various beers, their respective qualities and their greater suitability, or not, to accompany paella. The worst of it? It was clearly mutually fascinating to both participants.

So gone are my prejudices about women in supermarkets. Next time, I want to be in a queue with women who know what they want to buy and get on with buying it. Served, I hope, by a woman behind the counter who resists any temptation to inquire into their motivations and drinking habits.

The worst of it? I’ve never liked paella. And I’m not fond of San Miguel either.

The tale of the posh grocer and the plain grocer. With a moral for the Labour Party

The earth trembled in Britain this week. The heavens shook. We learned that one of the cheeky, cheap and cheerful German supermarket chains, Aldi (the other one’s Lidl), had overtaken top of the range Waitrose, in market share.

Upstart cocking a snoot at the establishment

Admittedly, neither has a huge share, and the difference isn’t great – 5.3% to 5.1% – but it’s nonetheless one of those watershed moments, because of the characters involved. Aldi, you see, operates out near-Spartan shops, small, a little dingy – fundamentally functional and little else. A setting that says, loud and clear, no frills – and cheap.

Oddly, though, Aldi maintains high quality for its low prices. No doubt the style of shop and the small numbers of staff help, but it also has a strategy which says that it will only sell what it can get, in good quality, in time to get to the shop. The lamb chops are pretty well guaranteed to be there each time you visit, but that particular soft drink your kids liked so much last time? Nope. They may not have been able to pick up another job lot at a fantastic price.

If you shop at Aldi, you have to plan to visit two shops. You go to Aldi first and buy everything off your list that they happen to have, knowing that it will be fresh, good and competitively priced. Then you go to one of the other grocers to pick up the rest.

Waitrose, on the other hand, caters self-consciously for the toff end of the market. Wide aisles, far more choice, pleasant light, all stock replenished as it runs out (well, nearly all), lots of air, courteous helpful staff in every aisle. And prices that frequently make your eyes water.

If you like, Waitrose is the place for antipasto, Aldi for starters. Except, oddly enough, that Aldi also does antipasto. And a great antipasto at a great price. When it has any, however, and that isn’t always.

Top of the range. And overtaken

The fact that Aldi has pulled ahead feels like a parable for our times. Many would feel more comfortable shopping at Waitrose, where the experience itself is so much more pleasant, and where you can pick up grocery bags you can feel proud to be seen with. But most people have purses that suit Aldi far better. If they’re beginning to realise that, and come to terms with shopping for quality at a good price, that has to be healthy.

It’s like our politics. We have a Conservative party led by people who feel right for power. Educated at our best private schools. Accents you could cut with a knife, and fully trained to make sure it’s the right knife. Who know how to behave in at a garden party, on a yacht or in the royal enclosure at Ascot. But may be not quite so sure about a working men’s club in a colliery village where the mine has closed down.

Many people would like to have their lifestyle and admire their easy fashionable manners. But they can’t afford them. Waitrose aspirations with Aldi pocketbooks.

They’d do far better to settle for Labour. Less up market, no doubt, but more in touch with us Aldi people. Able to deliver good quality but without costing you an arm and a leg (or perhaps I should say without costing you a social safety net in case you ever need one, or decent healthcare if you’re sick).

The only sad thing is when Labour decides to be more like the Conservatives. Aldi aping Waitrose. That’s not what gave Aldi its success, and it won’t help Labour. After all, people who want Conservative will vote for the real thing, not for the imitation.

As for people trying to sell goods far below Aldi’s quality but at at Waitrose prices, well that makes no sense at all. Unless you’re a UKIP voter.

What this week’s news about the grocers shows is how important it is to be yourself. Be proud of what you are. And do what you do supremely well.