Shopping Lists

It all began that day Sue left behind a slip of paper in her supermarket trolley . . .

IPULLED out three trolleys to get the one with a piece of paper wedged in the child seat. As I’d guessed, it was a shopping list. I love other people’s lists and pick up any I see. An odd hobby, I know, but harmless. The first time I did it was when I’d left my own at home. A woman returned her trolley as I went to take one.

“Thanks,” I murmured as I placed my hands where hers had been.

I’d got Julia settled in the seat before I saw the list abandoned in the bottom of the trolley. The woman had looked about my age and had a child with her, so our needs were likely to be similar. Her list could substitute for mine, I reasoned. I was right. Together with my memory it helped me buy what I needed.

It was some time before I looked at anyone else’s shopping list. I picked one up to put in the nearby litter bin. The list was short but the receipt, folded around it, had an alarmingly high total.

As I shopped I entertained myself by daydreaming about being able to afford the fancy wines and cheeses the other shopper had bought.

Lists, whether of intended or actual purchases, reveal a lot about a person. I didn’t write them as a child, but if I had they’d have been for sweets for the first few years, then anything to do with the pony I’d desperately wanted.

Later I spent my money on magazines, clothes and make-up. The first real lists I made were for my wedding. After that came ones concerned with the needs of a baby. The lists grew longer as our family grew, then shortened again as the children moved away.

OCCASIONALLY I saw the woman whose list I’d used back when Julia was a baby. I’m fairly sure it was the same person. The contents of her trolley provided a rough ref lection of mine. When I shopped for a family it seemed she did too. As I bought less, so did she.

Occasionally we exchanged a few words. Usually just “Sorry” when one of us was blocking a section of shelving the

other wished to reach, but sometimes we had an actual conversation.

“They’ve reduced a lot of things in the bakery section, did you see?” I said.

“Thanks. I might find something to fill lunchboxes without emptying my purse,” she replied.

Her lists, I imagined, would still look much like my own.

I’ve left out an important one though. Not a paper list, but one that’s stuck in my memory. My daughter, Julia, was seeing a boy I wasn’t quite sure about. He was polite, nice-looking, charming. He had a good job as a chef which provided him with a flat over the restaurant. He seemed too good to be true.

When, on the day Julia was due to go to dinner at his place, I saw him in the supermarket, that was too good an opportunity to miss. He wasn’t following a list. He didn’t drop his receipt. He did however accept my offer of a lift home and I accepted his offer of coffee.

That gave nosy me the chance to see what he’d bought. His bag held the ingredients for the meal, proving he didn’t steal from his employer. He’d bought Julia’s favourite flowers and chocolates, proving he was romantic and paid attention to her preferences. A single bottle of not very strong sparkling wine showed he wasn’t intending to get her drunk.

At the bottom was a pack of condoms which I pretended not to notice. They’ve been married 12 years now and are very happy.

When I retired I didn’t use the supermarket. My husband and I bought food from farm shops, street markets and unusual delicatessens. We didn’t bother with lists as we never knew what we might find.

The worst lists I’ve ever made weren’t for items I wished to acquire, but for those I had to dispose of after my husband’s death. It was a terrible time, but my children and their spouses were a tremendous help.

It was some time before I went shopping on my own again. I went without a list as I didn’t need much and had only myself to please. If I forgot anything it wouldn’t matter. Returning the following day would give me the chance to talk to someone, even if it was only to say I could manage my own packing.

That’s when my interest in shopping lists and receipts really took hold. I picked up every one I saw and tried to guess about the list maker and what they had planned for the week ahead. Silly perhaps, but it amused me.

I’D DECIDED to challenge myself to buy things on my latest-found list and make a meal from them when I saw the woman I’d come to think of as my list twin. She dropped a pack of painkillers into her basket. It landed on a stack of similar packs, next to a bottle of wine.

“Hello,” I murmured, wondering if it was too late to form a friendship.

She turned away without speaking and headed for the checkout. There was no need to see the receipt to know she’d bought nothing but wine and tablets. There’d been times, just after I was widowed, when I’d considered making the same purchases and consuming the items all together. I followed, not sure what to do or say, but knowing I couldn’t let her walk away alone. “Please wait,” I said as she paid. She looked at me in surprise. I don’t think she’d realised I was there. She did wait though.

“Do you have time for a coffee or something?” I asked.

She checked her watch. “I’ve got 20 minutes.”

That reassured me a little about the contents of her shopping bag. If they’d been for what I imagined she’d either have felt she had no time to waste, or been in no hurry at all.

By the time we were sipping drinks in the supermarket café, it felt as if Sue and I were old friends.

“I almost feel we are,” I told her. “I’m sure it was you I saw when I first started shopping here. It must have been about . . . Well, Julia was three, so 40 years ago. You, if it was you, have a daughter about the same age.”

“Yes, I do! I’ve noticed you too and thought perhaps we could be friends. There wasn’t time back then, was there?”

“No. I have time now though.” I told her about the shopping list she’d once dropped and the interest I’d developed in learning what people bought, and guessing why.

“You must have wondered about that then?” Sue indicated the bag at her feet.

I nodded. I was convinced by then that my initial guess had been wrong.

“Want to come with me and find out?” she suggested.

I did, but my car was parked outside, I’d bought food that needed to go in the fridge and I didn’t know anything about the woman. My hesitation must have shown.

“Sorry, a bit out of the blue when we’ve only just met. It’s just that I really do have to go now and I think you might enjoy this afternoon, plus I’d like us to be friends.”

“I’d like that too. My car’s outside though,” I explained.

“Of course. Well, I’m going to that little hall in Church Street. I’ll be there from two until five. Join me if you want to but, if not, how about we meet here next week, a bit earlier so we have longer to talk?”

“You’ve got me curious now and I live close to Church Street. I could walk down.”

“I’ll be walking too. See you in half an hour or so then,” Sue said.

I just had time to put my shopping away, tidy myself up a little and walk to the hall for two o’clock. When I arrived, Sue greeted me and offered me a glass of wine before introducing me to the rest of her flower-arranging group.

“I don’t know anything about flower arranging,” I said.

“Neither do most of us really, but Mo is trying to teach us the basics. Really it’s just an excuse to get together, chat and drink wine.”

“That explains half of your shopping basket,” I said.

“The rest is because I heard they help cut flowers last longer. I brought them along to ask Mo.”

Mo examined my new friend’s purchases, which I realised weren’t exactly as I’d first thought. As well as the painkillers I’d seen, there were vitamin C and water-purification tablets.

“The vitamin C might help,” Mo said. “A squeeze of lemon juice and teaspoon of sugar are what I use. Some people add a drop of bleach, but I don’t. It’s easy to use too much and kill rather than cure.”

I’d like to say I helped Sue with her arrangement that afternoon, but in truth I think I was more of a hindrance. We did have a lot of fun though. I still like to look at other people’s shopping lists, but I enjoy my new hobby of flower arranging and my new friendship even more. © PATSY COLLINS