'Go round again dear' comes the plea,
'And not so fast',
'Look over there! they're coming out',
'They're not', 'Oh blast! ',
The weekly shopping ritual,
Third time around, 'Look here's a chance,
'They've seen it too, but we were first',
Oh, what a lark,
Quick thinking, and a swift reverse,
At last we park.
Collect a trolley from the pool,
Push straight ahead,
Just retribution for 'the lark',
Steers like a bed.
A compensating sideways push,
Cajoles our wheels,
Reluctantly along the rows,
To load our meals.
Avoiding things we do not need,
The tempting snacks,
We load the staples from the shelves,
And watch our tracks.
Bemoan the big, and bigger packs,
Designed to take,
Every week, a bigger slice of,
Our spending cake.
The Crisps from Smith's, that used to come,
In tupp'ny packs,
No more a treat, but fodder like,
Now come in sacks.
And giant Cokes that guarantee,
And grow the profits of the big,
Big Fresh, the 'W's' and 'C's',
Our options few,
As they grow bigger by the day,
No room for 'New'.
Our load complete, it's time to play,
The 'Checkout' game,
'Eight Items Max' the notice says,
Oh! what a shame.
'Try number three, it's not too bad,
We're fourth in line',
'It might be quicker over there? ',
But I decline.
With patience we approach the till,
Then, can't believe the words we hear,
'Lunch time, I'm closed! '.
Whilst loudly mouthing epithets,
Some most profane,
I leave the 'better half' to choose,
At last, most hurdles overcome,
Just one more bar,
We fight the trolley through the park,
To find the car.
And think our thoughts, remembering,
A better way,
When Arkwright ran the corner store,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.