Mother Hubbard

I quite like shopping.

There, I’ve said it.

Out loud.


Of course, that’s only if certain conditions are met:

  1. I’m on my own
  2. I know what I want to get.

Which I usually do.

I always do the weekly food shopping, for instance, and I don’t even mind doing that.

It normally takes me about an hour on a Saturday morning. Unless, for some reason, Mrs M decides she wants to come along. In which case, it’s going to take twice as long.

And cost twice as much.

But, on my own, I can whizz round.¬† I don’t make a list, I just go up each and every aisle, remembering what I need as I go and grabbing anything that’s on special offer.

I have my regular bit of banter with Hazel and Carole on the Deli counter, and Suzanne knows exactly what to make for me when I approach the pizza section. “The usual? It’ll be ten minutes.”

And if I have time, I’ll start the whole process¬† with a cup of tea and a toasted teacake in the cafeteria, first.

Shopping. What’s not to like?

Tell me.


  1. If you like it that much you can come and do ours. I will even pay for the cuppa.

  2. Sam does the shopping. On her phone. It’s an app thing called Ocado. Then Graham nips around and delivers it in the watermelon (or whatever)

  3. I loathe shopping, in all its forms. The reason is, I don’t like being near a lot of people.

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