14.7.13 Mission Impossible

1st Man to 2nd Man:  "A woman's just asked for a courgette; you look here, I'll look out the back."

Hardly 'Mission Impossible' but this was what I heard today when in the local Asda.  One very dozy bod was taking control of what must have been a fraught situation, and directing another less vocal assistant.  This level of input following the request of a woman was well below the level of input by Asda on Friday when I was in need of some garlic, and found the same store to be devoid of a single fucking bulb!  Empty shelves and empty fruit or veg bins are the order of the day in the 'Skelton Skip', the appropriate name for this green block of pointlessness in what was once a pristine field.

As the one left behind to look for a courgette managed to dither in front of me, I considered how the disappointing (though not surprising) level of intellect at Asda was likely to keep offending me in the weeks, months and years to come.  Depressed, I pushed forward, literally, and tried to acquire some sprite.  I had intended to obtain some cans rather than a 2-litre bottle for £1.  Sadly I was to be thwarted by an outrageous pricing policy that meant the eight-can pack holding 2.64 litres was not worth buying.  Pro-rata it should have been £1.32, but instead I was expected to pay £4.20.  A slight premium for cans is one thing, but more than three times the cost was a joke.

Today, I was witness to the fact that it's indeed possible for a checkout operator to take over a minute to scan a cabbage.  After my purchase of little more than beer, some asparagus, juice and cooked meats, I joined a queue that appeared short enough to be worth the bother.  The spindly checkout woman was young and as thin as the asparagus I'd placed on the conveyor.  After the delay while a problematic barcode caused her to lose another half kilo through panic and stress, she finally tapped in some numbers after a colleague arrived to assist her with the rogue cabbage.  I finally cleared the checkout and attempted a swift exit, but this was a pointless endeavour.  Doom appeared quickly in the guise of a fat fucker in front of me who dictated the pace of forward movement - fucking slow.  The waddling heap of flesh finally allowed me to escape, and I was glad to be outside again.  Behind me I'd left the spindly checkout operator to fight off anorexia and the two agents to seek out a courgette.  As I hit the bypass, I saw the various locals ambling along the side of the 60mph road, as they were strangely drawn to the 'Field of Dreams'.  The living dead were spooky.

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