Drove to town. Parked. Dismounted. Assumed ready position; I had exactly one hour to dash to the butcher and Waitrose before school pickup.
Locked Car. Walked away. Damn. The bags. Unlocked car. Where are they? They're here somewhere. Ewwww! What's that? A mouldy grape? I really didn't need to touch that. OK, forget the bags. I'll bring the groceries back to the car in the trolley and load them straight in.
Yes, the same as last week. Six stuffed chicken breasts. And smoked salmon. Please. Yes, they loved it. And some of that soft cheese, what's it called?
No, not in a bag, thank you. It's Recycle Week next week. I've promised not to use them. Yes, I can manage. I have two hands and will balance everything on top of the biscuits. Thanks!
OK, cream, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries. Green beans. Where's the cucumber? Pims is not Pims without cucumber. And orange. Cheese twists. French loaf. After Eights.
I'm out of here. No, no bags please. It's Recycle Week. Thanks. Yes, I paid, here's my receipt. It's Recycle Week. I've promised not to use any bags. I know, I keep forgetting them. Silly me.
Must hurry. It's almost three. Oh, what's that? There they are. Under the seat next to a half-eaten digestive. Lovely. How in the heck? Oh well, next time.
These damn bags are going to be the death of me.
Photo credit: wallyg
