The advent of the internet has changed most old, supposedly, great arts - reading books, buying old frail vinyl albums, love letters and my personal favourite - physical social contact. I also no longer have to go Shopping in my nearest food superstore to get my favourite dietary items.
My previous experiences in these pyramids of peer pressure have been all too awkward. The whole process of finding your favourite goods is fun. Strolling from aisle to aisle, leisurely, is ecstasy. It’s what capitalism was born on. Screw all those debates about how communism eventually becomes a dictatorship. All they need to do is draw up photos of these beautiful aisles stacked with foods and drinks from across the globe – this would be enough to make the middling Cuban citizen yearn for a bit of Capitalist order in their lives.
My carefree stroll down all the aisles, leaves my basket full of foods for ‘one’ - I am more than satisfied.
The next step of the process is the Greek tragedy...my downfall...the purchasing of my glorious items. First of all you have to find an aisle out of the 30-50 on show that is actually open. Then one that's actually customer-lite. Both necessities are painstaking. Once you get to the front of the queue – behind you is the other 100 people who have joined your queue. You are now faced with the unwanted pressure of having to pack your own items. Not something to be sniffed at. The overly smiley cashier never opens the bags for you - thus I spend the first 40-120 seconds of this adventure trying to open the eco-friendly carrier bag. One bag open. 3 items in...time to open the 2nd bag...another 40-120 seconds wasted...the items roll along the conveyor belt and begin to pile up - customers behind me stand on impatiently. Arms folded, pent up anger on their faces, annoyance in their tapping fingertips. I am Private Ryan, they are Tom Hanks and his crew of soldiers having to get shot to pieces to ‘Save’ me. There should be courses on how to pack shopping efficiently. I often mix the hard items with the soft items. Frozen with non-frozen. This, allegedly, is not etiquette. 5 minutes later when I am nearly done packing, what was once my glorious items but now just anvils around my ankles, I am presented with 57 personal questions about my shopping habits (how intrusive!) by the scary cashier - do I have a loyalty card? Would I like one? How would I like to pay? Did I buy petrol? Do I shower with a shower cap on???
No, no, cash, no, no, no. Receipt. Bye.
"Why have you got shopping bags for?" My agent asks, confused, an hour later at his office.
"I went shopping."
"Yeah I know you went shopping but I asked you to come to a serious, you could even say critical, meeting and you turn up with shopping bags???" My agent is your typical agent. Suited. Short-fused. Taste of money on his tongue.
"Yeah?" I shrug.
"Maybe instead of shopping you should concentrate on that book you keep promising me?!"
"What do you mean ‘instead of shopping’? So I gotta starve myself for my art? What am I? A hybrid of Gandhi and Andy Warhol?"
He lets go of a chuckle, amongst his confused and angry demeanour.
"Whatever, how's that book of yours...? The poetry thing..."
"’Poetry thing’? You're my agent and you're describing it as 'thing'? Reassuring."
“What is it again?”
“A book of poetry. All written by me. Fused with a tale of a guy who’s having...”
"Whatever.” He interrupts, “Get it finished. I told you that a poetry thing would be difficult. But oh no, you gotta be Mr. clever...and..."
As he babbles on, my mind wanders off into thoughts of me winning the Nobel for being the hybrid of Gandhi and Warhol. Gently, I smile to myself. The beauty of the internet and mobile phones with caller display means I can choose who I want to talk to. A key to Happiness - choose who you communicate with very wisely.
I get up with my plenty some shopping bags, him in mid sentence - "Where you going?" He enquires.
"I'll email ya." I say with a wry smile. He and I, both know I probably won't. But if I browse the World Wide Web at any point I might do some on-line food shopping. Food delivered to my door. That’s what Sir Thomas Moore really meant when he first penned the word Utopia.
Utopia
U⋅to⋅pi⋅a
Show Spelled Pronunciation [yoo-toh-pee-uh]
–noun
1. Not listening to people you don’t want to.
2. Over tipping waiters with other people’s money (preferably people you don’t like).
3. On-line food shopping.
