Shopping. (Nocturne in E-Flat Major)

 Went to my local M&S today. It's always trouble. There may be a Feng Shui issue. Or a major design flaw, if you're less fanciful about energy and good vibes only. As you enter, the first thing you see are the self-service tills. Behind them, against the back wall are a selection of flowers tastefully arranged in pricey bouquets. On the right, the shop proper, opening up into fruit and veg. There are three shop length aisles and, on the far left of the shop a bakery, and something peculiar to Northern Ireland, a shame-booth containing wine and beer, accessed via two waist-height gates. I've lived here long enough to remember when this M&S had no drinks license - the Norn licensing laws are Byzantine and arcane - and their U.K. rolled out meal deals - starter, main, bottle of wine - introduced me to the existence of Shloer Bubbling White Grape Juice. Booze is available now, though you have to slip into a little Wendy House to buy it, like trying to score 200 fags at an airport. 

I can't believe people still smoke. Y'all be millionaires. I just checked: you can pay £85 for 200 Marlboro Lights in the duty free. Actually, that's not bad, given a pack of 20 costs nearly 20 quid. By Grabthar's hammer, what a savings!

I enter the shop. I have my instructions. Susan is returning from England after a stressful week and wants treats. Easy treats. I'm buying a pack of Percy Pigs, a Thai selection suitcase, a Bramble apple Victoria sponge, and a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet. I also thought I might buy some flowers. I've been here before. I know where everything is. And, because the Fleadh is on, the shop's the quietist I've ever seen it, the carpark almost empty. This should be easy. 

It's not easy. 

Well, yes it was. I've mastered shopping. But it was also awkward and confusing, and it always is in this shop. 

Everyone is using a trolley. You'd think they were doing their weekly shop in M&S - y'all be millionaires - but no, a quick snoop reveals about three items per trolley. Judging by the frail dotage of most, but by no means all, of the consumers, they're propping themselves against them like strollers. The aisles are narrow. People stand back to view the produce. And they're beetling their shopping carts down them like Range Rovers through country roads. I go to the place where I know the Thai variety boxes are, but I can't get to them because a woman has parked her trolley parallel to the shelf where they squat, tantalisingly out of reach. The woman is contemplating the produce with the sort of intensity that makes me not want to say excuse me. It would be dangerous, like waking a sleepwalker. I opt to pick up the Percy Pigs. This goes off without a hitch. And I'm next to the booze booth so I try to slip in and pick up my zesty white, but two people have parked their trolleys in the booze booth and there is no room for a third person. I worry how they're ever going to get out. I go back to the Thai box area, but she's still there, lost in her retail reverie, so I go and pick up a sponge cake. Back at the booth, one trolley is attempting a three point turn, so I head back to the Thai box and she's gone, so I can finally pick one up. Just the wine and flowers to go. Three more trolleys block my pathway, so I turn around and circumnavigate the entire shop, finally picking up the wine. Yes. 

I head to the self-service tills, as it's the only way to reach the flowers but, as I approach, a staff member says, "No, sorry. That's a no alcohol till. You have alcohol." I turn and see that there is one free till, the non-alcohol till. This is, presumably, why it is not in use. 

"No," I say, "It's fine. I just wanted to look at the flowers." 

The flowers are against the back wall. She looks at me as if I'm bullshitting her and blocks my way, so I can't see all the flowers. She seems to be fuming, and I'm not sure what I've done. Her friend approaches: blonde, loud, grinning. "You're very judgemental today, Jean." I don't know if this is for my benefit or Jean's, but I approximate a good-natured smile, just in case. But Jean's not having it, and the smiley woman's face falls. She says, "Okay, Jean love. See you next week." And she's gone. 

The flowers are shit. Poorly arranged and murderously expensive, and I elect not to buy any after all. This makes my story obvious bullshit to Jean, as I skulk off, flora-free. I go to see if the (wo)manned till would serve me but there three people waiting to be served. So I go to the self-service till, the one that allows alcohol. Do you know about this? That if you go into supermarkets in Northern Ireland you can't buy alcohol from every till: there are virgin and whore tills. No one here thinks this is any way unusual. I beep my groceries, and when the wine demands Jean's attention, she has to come over to verify my age, and I offer a very loud, very friendly "Thank you!". I get nothing in return. Jean is cold. Damn it, Jean.    

I go to pay. My card is not accepted. M&S, this M&S, is the only place it happens and it happens 50% of the time. I put the card in the reader and try to remember my pin number and, apparently, do. Success. I pack the shopping bag: Thai suitcase at the bottom, wine to one side, Percy pigs on the other, the cake on top, and I move to leave. At the no alcohol till is a woman with a trolley. It's square on against the back wall, completely blocking the exit. I can't get out. Jean sees what I'm trying to do and can't and finally cracks a smile. I could go the other way, negotiate the shop's u-bend, and try and escape through the entrance, but there's a gaggle of new shoppers entering the shop and an immediate bottle-neck is formed. So that's out. I nimbly, well no, clumsily, manoeuvre past the woman's shopping trolley - she remains oblivious to my existence - Jean, openly sniggering at my attempt to leave, doesn't shift, making the room left to me to squeeze my body through, is even more slight. I manage it, but my nerves are jangled. It's always like this, every time. 

I'm too sensitive for the M&S Foodhall. I'm too cosseted and feeble for the M&S crew. There's always a Mean Jean, while trolleys clash like the Sympleglades* in narrow channels, and not a fishy whiff of Poseidon anywhere. I am cursed by the gods of high end retail. This is not just angst...it's M&S howling existential angst. 

*In Turkey, the clashing rocks are called The Midwife's Stool. Okay.