Supermarket Blues
an excerpt

Well, the sun has come out, and much of yesterday’s washing is now dry. Am I able to ignore it? No. So it comes off the line and into three large baskets, and of course I hang out the last two basket of wet washing. It is said that it will rain tomorrow, so I must grab the chance. What do I do next? Naturally I fold all the undies, and all of the hand towels for the shop, and the 2 weeks worth of bathroom towels, and the pyjamas, etc etc, and put the darned things in their correct places.

Now… I suppose …if I were to file all that paperwork, I may have more time to write tomorrow? I file the paperwork. Now, I’ll just log in and begin.

Oh no, Incorrect password! It’s NOT incorrect. I even wrote it down, Look, here in my little notebook… But PCs do not actually listen when we complain, they simply wait for us to comply with their demands to fill in the required fields etcetera, and so it takes quite a little while for me to get organised and actually login. I select the region where I lived for thirty years before moving to this place last January. There are no regions here with which to affiliate, so I must be on my own down here.
I write a little bit of blah and post it, just to prove that I exist.

In two hours, I should have a nice hot meal on the table for three, after driving to the shop to collect Sammy and then to the bus stop to collect a dour-faced girl who is the most reluctant student I have ever come across. Why does a girl like her wish to become an accountant? She thinks money grows on trees.

What ever shall I write about? Could I possibly write a Supermarket manual? Is it possible to do that without lying open my whole lifestyle to prying eyes, and making everyone aware of my innermost feelings?

My marriage could fail, my business be destroyed, my life fall into ruins, and yet? The idea is becoming somewhat appealing, if only because since we have bought the darned thing the supermarket has taken over a large proportion of my random access memory.

I know, I’ll write a revue. With a song in it called the Supermarket Blues. It’ll soon
become a TV soapie. Each of our staff will be immortalised in it, as shall my husband and myself. Sammy and Asila in the Supermarket Blues. Would people watch it?
I guess there’s only one way to find out. NaNoWriMo.

Leaping out of bed at 5.44am, since I had slept through the alarm, I dragged my unwilling body into yesterday’s outer clothing, wishing I had time for a shower to wake myself enough to be able to concentrate properly.
After greeting hubby with a “good morning”, I rush into the kitchen, put the electric jug on, and make three toasted scrambled egg sandwiches, one each for my husband and his nephew, and one for the delivery truck driver. A cup of coffee, also for the truck driver, is poured into one of those silly-looking sippy-cups favoured by many male drivers.
Next, I swallow down the cup of tea that my husband has made and passed to me, grab some shoes, and follow him to the car. It is a bit cold. I shiver all the way to the supermarket, where the huge IGA delivery truck is perched awkwardly on the bitumen at the rear of the shop.