Supermarket Lunacy
Why do I attract the misfits of this world? Is it my personal magnetism which draws strange people towards me? It seems to happen most often when I can’t escape – strapped in an airline seat, for instance, where I’ve had to listen to real life confessions worthy of a Netflix horror film.
However, my most recent weirdo experience was at an ordinary supermarket. The scene: I’m just reaching for a sachet of instant sauce to cheat with when unexpected guests drop by. Convenience food is made to be just that – convenient. A male voice asks, in accented German, “What’s that?” Thinking he is from a country unfamiliar with Maggi and Nestlé, I turn to reply to a respectably dressed middle-aged man, with a black rucksack over his shoulder. As I start to speak, he cuts in sharply, “Don’t touch that stuff. It’s poison! Dangerous!” I look at him in amazement but still put the sachet in my basket. He blocks my way. “I just told you, don’t you understand? I know your type – too lazy to cook! Like all women, you’ve no idea. Now I really know how to cook”, he said, raising his voice. I stop being cross with this nutritional nutcase. Now I am really scared. Every day innocent people are attacked, mostly in the street. But at 11 o’clock in the morning, in a small-town supermarket? Maybe he’s a mad chef, a crank, a health- food psychopath? I’m to be his next victim, because I dare to buy instant sauce. But hey! I’m no heroine, about to die for the European food industry.
My mind flashed back to last year. The same man in the same supermarket, by shelves full of chilled processed food. At the time I was holding a salami in my hand. “Why do you eat that kind of rubbish? And all this bad stuff too …”, he demanded. I replied, with a friendly smile, hoping not to provoke him:, “But this is such delicious Hungarian salami, we love it.” A wild guess – maybe he was from Hungary? If he liked my words, then he might leave me in peace. No way. He lectured me on the dangers of artificial ingredients. “Processed food destroys the female thyroid.” There I was, stuck behind my supermarket trolley, facing a mentally unstable foody and unable to escape. He was deadly serious. Pushing him out of my way with the trolley, I said, “Oh how very interesting. I must go. Thank you so much for your advice”, and ran to check-out desk safety,
But this time he was menacing. And I didn’t have a trolley with which to push him out of the way. Again I was alone, with no customers anywhere near. I was frightened, my heart raced. “Get out of my way”, I shouted in German, then English, hoping someone would hear and come to my help. That rucksack on his shoulder was open on one side. He might produce a knife in a trice. He shouted back at me, in his own language. He was red in the face. I cried out, “Where’s the manager?“, and dropped my basket on his foot with a crash. I darted past him and ran to the front of the store. By the time the manager appeared, it was too late. The man had fled. And the store guy didn’t believe me anyway. His look clearly said, “You are the crackpot around here!”
Perhaps that oddball chef still haunts food shops? If he speaks to you, play deaf and dumb, ignore him, as I should have done. Sometimes being too polite gets you into hot water at the cold cabinet.