Gerrowadalight – trolley dash at full gallop in the Our Town supermarket

‘MEDDERS, keep going!’ The tone of urgency was clear. I had thought to compare the value for money of the dozen different types of pasta on offer in the Our Town supermarket. But Hermione was in no mood this evening to linger amidst the linguini or tarry over the tagliatelle. Indeed, my normally laid-back spouse was in no mood to linger anywhere at all. We were on a mission and relaxing with the ravioli was not on the mission statement.

She whisked me briskly past the chill cabinet display, tossing packets of frozen broccoli into the trolley without breaking stride. Then we took the tinned goods aisle at a canter, grabbing cans more or less at random as we passed. I struggled to maintain contact as we hustled past the breakfast cereals, catching the packets of porridge Hermione chucked over her shoulder, doing my best not to knock anyone over as the trolley skidded around a corner.

On a typical outing of this kind, Hermione could fairly be accused of loitering. The weekly shop requires careful examination of products and prices. Not this time, as scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since from start to finish when we surged past the fruit and vegetable department towards the checkout.

A look of pained panic blighted her normally serenely lovely features when she realised we were doomed to queue behind a mother-of-fifteen who appeared to be stocking up in the face of imminent world war. There was no question of scooting through. ‘Here, you look after this,’ she hissed. ‘I’ll see you in the car park.’ I looked at her open-mouthed. Hermione only relinquishes responsibility for checkout duties if hospitalised with double pneumonia or childbirth. A mere husband cannot be relied upon to ensure that shop staff will make the correct allowance on twofor-one offers or give full discount on vouchers. This was, frankly, unprecedented. Small wonder my jaw dropped.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay,’ she hissed indignantly. Her voice smacked of a sentiment which my dearest seldom allows to show – exasperation. She evidently thought that I was coming the cheapskate when in fact I was merely gobsmacked. She frisbeed her debit card in my general direction as she legged it out into the night and left me to wait my turn.

The mother-of-fifteen was not only amassing enough food for a battalion. She also had to dispatch one of her children to replace a bag of sugar which had sprung a leak. This took a good five minutes. Then she demanded Christmas stamps – in the middle of spring, godammit. Then she produced a mountain of loose notes and coins, which she counted out laboriously only to find that she was €1.27 short. She finally offered to settle her bill by cheque, a move which dictated that the store manager had to be summoned from some faraway office to give formal approval.

Eventually, I emerged into the gloom of the car park to find Hermione pacing up and down with all the nervous energy of a hen which cannot remember where the eggs are laid. I summoned up a cheery wave and said I hoped we would make it back to the Manor in time for this week’s episode of her favourite TV series. The prospect of missing a her ration of American hospital drama was the only obvious reason to account for her agitated behaviour.

She stopped still long enough to give me a look of withering scorn: ‘What are you on about?’ She resumed her pacing. ‘ This is Thursday. Anyway, I have it recorded.’

At this point there was no alternative but to ask. Why was my tranquil life partner in such a state of perpetual, agitated motion?

‘I have to do my steps,’ she explained, in the frantic manner of heroin addicts insisting they have to have their fix.

Enlightenment dawned. My darling has acquired a fit bit. Yes, a fit bit. One of those gizmos worn on the wrist to monitor pulse and activity rates. I thought at the time of purchase that the €50 spent was a bit steep for something which looked like a watch but did not tell the time. It turns out that €50 was the price of a new, high-rev, goal-driven lifestyle - signalled right on cue by a beep-beep signal from the fit bit.

‘Phew! That’s my quota of ‘sustained exercise’ achieved for the day. Now I can relax.’ And so can I.