I have a theory that, in the average British supermarket, you’re never more than four aisles from a budding axe murderer. At least seven of the 20 weirdest encounters in my life have taken place in supermarkets, usually late at night, and often in the tea and coffee aisle, where the dozy and the dangerous gather to snort Earl Grey and plot sweet revenge.
The following meeting is unique among the stories in my wish-it-was-a-real-book-but-sorry-to-say-it-isn’t titled Tales From the Supermarket, in that it changed my life in a good way and that it took part in the cereal aisle, where some say it’s safer. It is, I assure you, entirely true.
Advice From a Probable Axe Murderer
A man stood next to me in Tesco on Tuesday. There are two types of men who shop at supermarkets: those who go with a trolley and a list from their girlfriend, and those who never buy enough to bother with a basket. The man looked across at me, saw my trolley and my list, and gave a sharp sniff in disgust.
With a bottle of cider under one arm, he paused for a moment to pull open his waist band, slide a hand into his pants, and adjust his man spuds. Confirming that all were present and correct, he cleared his throat and asked me a question:
‘What cereal’s best for fighting?’
‘Fighting?’ I replied. I’d probably misheard him. He’d said writing. Or kiting. That was it. The scars on his forearms were from kiting mishaps, I assured myself. It made sense now. This would all work out fine.
‘Fighting,’ he said again. ‘Lots of fighting.’ I considered whether or not corn flakes would prove effective in preventing his fist reaching my face, should it come to that. Then I offered him my best advice.
‘You want porridge,’ I said. ‘Cheap; simple; full of slow-release carbs. Porridge is proper fighting food. Every Scotsman knows that.’
He waited a moment as if considering whether to thank me or thump me. Then he grabbed a box of porridge, snorted, and offered me his verdict.
‘I’d ‘ave ‘im,’ he said, nodding towards the proud Scotsman on the box front. ‘Thanks, fella,’ he added. ‘Nice trolley.’ Then, as I prepared to defend myself from a wild hook or fast jab, he turned and walked five or six paces in the direction of the checkouts. That’s when he spun back and barked three orders at me, each one separated by a deep breath:
‘Live every day like your last!
Love someone with all your heart!
Never forget how lucky you are!’
I like to think that a short breeze blew at this point, the clouds cleared, and the light shifted from a dark grey to a warming orange. But I was indoors buying milk and biscuits, so who knows? By the time I glanced up from the muesli box I’d chosen in preparation as an improvised shield, he was gone.
The experience taught me not to be too quick to judge. And that it’s true about the cereal aisle being safer. Oh, and I’m trying hard to follow his advice, by the way. If I’ve learned one thing in supermarkets, it’s never to argue with a man who won’t carry a basket. Why buy a week’s worth of food when you’re living each day like your last?
