There are two things the Fag Hag has always vowed she would never do. The first is date a man who is in possession of a fleece top. The second is set foot over the threshold of Budgens.
Now this last one ain’t a snooty bitches thing – many’s the time the Faggy’s been spotted sleeve pulling in Primark or perusing a chromium dimmer switch in B&Q. It’s just a Budgens thing. There’s something about the name, and the storefronts and the defeated faces that go in there that makes me go all Sylvia Plath and want to stick my head in the navy Aga.
Anyway, yesterday the Fag Hag decided that she ought to face her fear for the very first time (what with all of us being forced to live on potato peelings from a serial killer’s dustbin for the next few years). So I took a deep breath, donned some Wayfarers to avoid being spotted by anyone I vaguely respected, and entered at my own peril. And my darlings, like sex with a New Zealander, it’s an experience I won’t be repeating…
If hell is other people, they’ve all gone to Budgens. I don’t want ‘Crazy Chick’ being blasted out of a tinny stereo whilst I stock up on Andrex toilet tissue thank you. And I don’t want a toddler smeared in chocolate (Christ, I hope it was chocolate) charging at me whilst I make choices about handwash. And I don’t want the shelf stacker who’s handing me my creme fraiche to have last bathed in 1974. And I certainly don’t want the large checkout woman to ask me ‘Excuse me, is this green thing a courgette or somefing?’
So I have learnt my lesson. And besides there’s a far cheaper way to economise with food – I’m off to get myself an eating disorder.