One of those faces…

Wednesday 26^th February 2020

I think I just have one of those faces. No, not my resting piss-off face. I think I have a face, or maybe it’s body language, that makes people talk to me.  By which I don’t mean you, or my family or friends. Random people, in random places.  Especially shops.  The following are real, totally un-exaggerated examples, one as recent as this week.

In Sainsbury’s, this week, I parked my trolley on an isle-end and ventured into the almost deserted laundry isle, questing for fabric conditioner.  I really hate food shopping, and associated household items.  To counter this I have tried on-line shopping but the process was almost as bad, and it triggered a few OCD issues, as I shop with a very precise list, based on a very detailed menu plan for the week, and the on-line process was full of jumpy promos and adverts trying to lure me towards, for example, pizza.  Which is, for the record, not real food and usually messy and disgusting. Smearing cardboard-like bits of desiccated dough with tomato paste and adding a random selection of otherwise unrelated foods is not cooking and it doesn’t produce food. Sorry, digression, but you see why on-line diversion tactics are not good for me.

So, I’m still in the laundry isle.  There is, of course as is dictated by the Law of Shopping, one solitary other woman, whose body and trolley are tactically placed in the fend-off position, entirely blocking the fabric conditioner portion of the isle. So I veer off to closely examine the other laundry products (side note: So. Many. Things.) But after a few minutes reading about recycling the packaging for boxes of laundry sheets (?), I start to feel that she has had more than her full allocation of laundry time, so I sidle across and mime the ‘you are directly in my way, but I am trying to be polite about suggesting you move on’ dance. 

She glances at me. Rather than move her trolley, which budges not one inch, she leans into me – directly into my close space, across her own trolley – and shoves the top of a bottle of fabric softener into my face. And she says: ‘go on, sniff that.’ So, and I have no idea why I didn’t walk out and leave my trolley of slowly warming chilled/frozen things, I did sniff it.  She then said:  ‘do you like it?’  Now, I didn’t mind it, it wasn’t bad.  But before I could reply, she deftly produced a 2nd up-turned lid, held it under my nose – and I sniffed it, and then she did.  ‘Well?’  Why didn’t I just leave?  But no, I said, truthfully: ‘It’s not as nice as the first one.’  She then asked why? I said, also truthfully, that the 2nd sample smelled more like plastic. So, instead of letting me off, she replaced the caps on both, up-turned the bottles, removed the caps and we did the smell test again.  We did this, she explained, because sometimes the plastic smell is from the actual plastic, so you need to coat it in product, first.  I still liked sample one. 

Two further samples were explored by which time, I was beginning to feel an odd mixture of surrender, interest, and mild fear. I stuck to my guns though, now being both wedded to sample one, and also unable to smell anything at all. 

At some point, about the 2nd sample time, Mark located me and walked towards me, up the isle.  But, seeing me and this random stranger engaged in what I always knew was a bizarre sniffing session by the conditioners but yet was unable to break away from, he, without skipping a beat, just walked right on past us, and rounded the corner to paper goods. I didn’t see him again until it was all over. He instantly assumed spy-like qualities of complete non-recognition.  Not a flicker, nor a pause.  Impressive.  I would have stopped and stared.  Seeing that I was unmoved by samples 2 – 4, this woman smartly replaced all the caps, swapped sample 3 (her favourite) for sample 1, said: ‘well, I hope I enjoy going round smelling of this all week!’ gave me a cheerful if resigned smile, hastened away – and as abruptly as it began, it was over. 

I have seen people choose a scent in Jo Malone with less dedication.  Impressive.  

Mark retrieved me. The question did not need to be asked, or answered. He just said:  ‘Again.’ And then a moment later: ‘What is it, with you?’

A few weeks ago, I was in Aldi with Lily.  I love Aldi.  It is the only exception to my hatred of supermarkets.  I like the random crap isles, and the whole Aldi-vibe, to be honest.  I favour the one in Highbridge which is further than the one in Bridgwater, but new.  Once, in this Aldi, just before the December 2019 general election, I overheard two elderly men (they had attendant women, I assume spouses, but they were silent) talking about the election and one said (I am not joking):  ‘If there was the brown shirts standing again, they’d get my vote.’ This was said in a Somerset accent so potent, it was almost liquid plant feed. The brown shirts.  The BROWN SHIRTS. The British League of Fascists, then?  Yep. He elaborated:  ‘Mosely. He knew what he was about.’ That time, I was with Mark and he broke his own rule which boils down to ‘don’t get involved’ and he physically propelled me away from the freezers/the ancient fascists.  Yes, friends, they walk among us, every day.  I don’t hold this against Aldi though.  That was just unlucky.

But anyway, the evening I was there with Lily, I was after diet Coke.  Aldi does some pretty clever knock-offs but diet drinks is not their strong suit so I wanted actual diet Coca Cola, which I love.    I couldn’t see any which I lamented to Lily, as Jack also likes it.  On this quiet winter evening, I had noticed a man, about 40 perhaps, neatly dressed but no coat, kind of always being near where we were.  Very near, at times.  But that is how it goes, isn’t it, in shops?  You start your journey by the veg with someone, and unless they are on a bakery-only mission, or just in it for the sniffing session in laundry, you end up with them in every single isle. Which can be very, very annoying. Still, I felt he was not really shopping, mainly because he did not have a basket, a trolley or any shopping.  Not much gets past me.  But I didn’t tell Lily as she, like Mark, dreads my stranger-interactions and disapproves of my observations. My senses were tingling though and I was right. 

So, I spot a random display of diet Coke, weirdly placed with the fake Lindt chocolate, and excitingly, they had flavours. Lime, which is OK, or my absolute favourite, cherry diet Coke. But all the cherry seemed to have gone.  I mentioned this to Lily, and slightly stooped to peer to the lower-back.  Upon which, this man, simply launched himself to the ground at our feet, in front of the Coke, and after the initial skid, in commando-crawl fashion, he wriggled until his arm reached to the very back of the bottom layer – and he produced a large bottle of cherry Coke! Well, Lily and I just stood for a moment in silence and then I took the Coke, but for once, for I am very polite, I forgot my manners and didn’t say thank you.  So he said:  OH! SORRY! I know that might have looked weird, but I couldn’t help hearing you say, earlier, that you wanted Coke and then you said just now, Cherry Coke – so I thought you’d like it.’ So I said, ‘oh, yes! I do like it, thank you.’  And then I said:  ‘I really wanted two…’ with which, he got onto the floor again and produced another bottle. By which time Lily had smartly moved off, with our trolley, after some Olympic-standard eye-rolling.  

And as we regrouped by the scampi, she wondered aloud about what she calls my weirdo-magnet. 

On trains, I always wear headphones which has considerably reduced the interaction.  But otherwise, I seriously have to stand facing into a corner, with my hood up, to stop it.  On the plus side, I have met some really nice people, some of whom I remember quite fondly. And I’ve certainly learned some very interesting things about many of them, some sad, some just odd, but mainly just little details, which I do quite like.

Anyway, I can’t turn it off.  Pop me in a queue, or a park, or a bus, and leave me.  When you come back with whatever you went to get, your seat or place will be occupied by someone who you might think I know.  Lily will come back and say, after they or we have moved off: ‘who was that?’ and I say: ‘I really have no idea.’ And she tuts, eye-rolls, and we gloss over it.