A peculiar supermarket sweep with the night owls

When a craving for breakfast cereal and morning rolls hits Rab late at night he’s forced to venture into unfamiliar territory – shopping in a 24-hour supermarket. But will he make it into a habit?

Ihave been to a supermarket. You may have hoped for a more dramatic opening sentence, so let me rack up the tension a little: I have been to a supermarket late at night. Yes, that made you sit up. Here’s how the unusual situation came about. I made a pig of myself last Friday and Saturday by inhaling whole fish suppers in one go then having curry and poppadoms for pudding.

So, on the Sunday, I decided to lay off the pabulum. I went out into the garden and hacked at random pieces of foliage but also sliced through the cord for the electric trimmer in the traditional manner. I want petrol garden equipment but am too frightened to put fuel into containers at the garage. I’ve never once seen anybody doing this, so have a presentiment that it will end in disaster, with the police called and so forth.

However, I digress. Blundering aboot the yaird and spending four and a half hours repairing the hedge trimmer (damned tiny screws!) took my mind off food for a bit.

Obviously, I had something to eat, but it was cheap herring paste that I dislike so much I spread it very thinly on the toast. I don’t know why I buy that paste. It seems to be in my DNA.

By about 10 at night, though, I was not only starving but the food my body cried out for was very particular: sugary breakfast cereal and Scottish white morning rolls.

I suppose this must be what it’s like for pregnant women. I had to have these comestibles, so I fetched my computer down from the attic and established that, for some peculiar reason, a large supermarket about 15 minutes’ drive away was open 24 hours a day.

I knew this establishment but, when I arrived, it looked like a scene after a nuclear holocaust. I’m over-egging the pudding here. What I mean to say is: the car park was nearly empty. Extraordinary.

Indeed, I thought the place must be closed, which impression wasn’t dispelled when the doors swished open and I waddled in.

Inside, the supermarket world had all changed. It was like a secret HQ. The staff give you funny looks, as if wondering what you’re doing there. They look unsure of themselves too, and seemed to resent having people around.

I do too and, like most people, wish the world were less populated. I look forward to the day when the more adventurous take off for ooter space, leaving just the saps behind: my people.

The few other shoppers didn’t look particularly peculiar. They seemed just a bit sad and lonely perhaps, apart from a bovine few who probably worked shifts and had to shop at this time.

Nobody was on the tills and we had to use the scary self-service machines, which actually went smoothly, apart from a problem when my beard got into the packing area.

I drove home through deserted Sunday night streets and thought: “I wonder if I could get used to this.”

But, undeniably, it felt peculiar and, as I munched my way through half a box of sweet cereal and three rolls on margarine, I concluded that being a night owl was strictly for the birds.