I am a whirlwind of accomplishment: I have replaced a rotten plank that forms the side of one of the raised beds in the garden; I have been to the eye doctor; I am now on my way to the supermarket, armed with a shopping list, to which I am already mentally adding items I intend to impulse buy.
When I reach the supermarket car park, however, the bright red balloon of my day springs a leak when I realise I have no pound coin for a shopping trolley. I used to keep a fake pound coin on my key ring, but it fell off. A quick search under the front seat of the car turns up two 10p coins, three socks and a boxing glove. I could try to shop with a basket in each hand, but my list is long and I hurt my back during the plank replacement project. I feel like giving up and going home.
Then I spy it, just sitting there, all the way across the car park: the free baby trolley. When I get closer, I realise that it is, in fact, a double baby trolley, featuring high-mounted strap-in seats for two infants. I hesitate for a minute, because I know this free trolley is not provided for the benefit of people too stupid to remember to bring a pound coin; it’s here for people who have made the mistake of coming to a supermarket with two babies. And it’s the only one of its kind in the car park.
I take the trolley, telling myself that if I meet a harried young mother with two infants, I will graciously offer it to her. For a pound. In the meantime, I will shop quickly, while looking straight ahead.
It’s difficult to shop quickly, though, because the high-mounted baby seats obscure my view not just of oncoming traffic, but of all the stuff I’ve already put in my trolley. I have to keep stopping to check its contents against my list. I try to remember what it was like doing this with an actual baby, with its tiny hands grabbing packages from the shelves and shredding them. I learned never to remove a wailing toddler from the trolley seat, because it was impossible to replace it – it was like trying to put a spider in a jar. In those days, I recall, my back hurt like this all the time.
A new till opens just as I approach the back of the queue, and I slip in first. My sense of accomplishment returns, although as I start to bag up, I notice that I’ve over-purchased certain items as a consequence of shopping with limited visibility. Never mind, I tell myself – wine doesn’t go off. I slide my debit card into the reader.
“Are you collecting school vouchers?” the man at the till asks.
“No,” I say.
“He’s got no kids,” an elderly women behind me in the queue says. “He’s lost them!”
“I don’t, um,” I say. “It’s just that…”
“What happened to them?” she says, pointing past me.
“Who?” I say.
I turn and see that she is indicating the two empty baby seats on top of my trolley. I turn back to her. She looks cross.
“Oh, the twins,” I say. “That’s weird. They were definitely here a minute ago.”
“Really?” she says.
The man behind the till looks at the woman. Then he looks at me.
“They usually make their own way back to the car,” I say.
“Here’s your receipt,” the man says. “You saved £1.83 on your shopping today.”
I turn to look at the woman one last time.
“They love telling you that,” she says. “It’s a lie.”
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