Shopping And Fucking

Actually, a more appropriate title would be Fucking Shopping!

Or even Fuck Shopping!

Or is that the practice of frequenting Tinder … or some other brothel/bordello?

I wonder what Shop Fucking would be about —’supermarket strange’, to coin a phrase? Would the Police be called to the scene? Would Annabel Chong be involved? Dogs (that’s ‘dogging’, right?). Psychiatrists (some woman ‘married’ the Eiffel Tower after all)?

Anyhow …

Some people suffer from claustrophobia and can’t stand being stuck in confined spaces.

Others suffer from agoraphobia and can’t stand being around other people.

Some, understandably, suffer from claustroagoraphobia and can’t stand being stuck in confined spaces with other people.

I suffer from aggroclaustrophobia — not only can I not stand being stuck in here with you lot but furthermore I’m inclined to do something about it!

So …

Some time ago, I noted that

The problem with waiting until this time of night (2a.m.) to discover that the fridge, freezer and every single cupboard in the home is devoid of even a single grain of rice, let alone any other kind of food, is that …

Ooh! … Chocolate biscuits!

I don’t have to go out after all.

Result!

It’s not even that time of night and I’m starving but there is, once again, nothing to eat in the fridge/freezer/cupboards.

Well, actually, there is.

There’s quite a bit of food, in fact.

But it’s either fart-fuel ¹ and/or I’d have to prepare and cook it.

And even then, what it boils down to is beans/pulses, potatoes and eggs.

And bread.

And I’m sick of fried egg sandwiches — even with cheese, sausage, bacon, etc. ² but mostly not, mostly just fried egg.

But I’ve discovered the tail end of a bag of fusilli and a packet of powdered soup that is only six months beyond its ‘best before’ date ³.

I reckon I can throw the ‘soup’ onto the pasta, do a couple of omelette sandwiches⁴ and call it a meal — if I squint at it from the half-closed corner of my eye whilst pretending to be looking at something else altogether.

It’s not that I’m agoraphobic ⁵.

In fact I’m really very sociable actually — C.f. footnote 10 here.

I’m perfectly happy to set foot outside and encounter other people.

I enjoy it, in fact.

But cooking for one is just so … meh, I can’t be bothered just for me.

In fact, I long ago worked out that the solution to the whole sordid rigmarole of ‘conceive of, purchase, pack, transport, unpack, prepare, cook, eat, wash up, clean up, repeat until you can’t bear the mundanity any longer and slit your wrists just to relieve the tedium of being alive’ was to simply stock up once … fill the fridge, freezer and cupboards … and then never eat any of it so that you never had to suffer through the whole wretched experience again.

Just the thought of having to get ready, go out, go shopping, drag it all home again … only to find myself in exactly the position described above … oh, Lord, take me now, I beg of you!

Gone for milk and tobacco … BBiaB

There … I finally did it … three days without milk and of smoking re-rolled re-rolled re-rolled re-rolled dog-ends are finally over … I have milk, cheese, tobacco and 98p-per-litre cider — I know how to live Life to the full, I do … (it’s just non-stop bohemian depravity and debauchery here).

I once let things get so far, over the course of three months, that I ran out of everything before I finally accepted I’‘d have to go shopping again. I’d even run out of horseradish sauce so, even if I’d had any bread to make sandwiches with, I couldn’t have made any … because I had nothing to put on it — not even horseradish sauce. That was the day that I discovered that you can throw whatever herbs and spices you like at it … but you’ll never manage to eat fried porridge.

Anyhow, later … maybe … if I can get over the soul-sapping, spirit-numbing existential ennui induced by the prospect of having to eat again … I might use some of the potatoes and eggs to make tortilla española.

I really like tortilla española so there’s a positive motivation to it.

But, on the other hand, it’ll probably be easier just to steam an old Christmas pudding I found in the back of the box room upstairs (only three years after its ‘best before’ date) and eat it with something I suspect may be ice-cream that refroze after thawing and leaking onto the ice in the freezer drawer.

Yes, I think that’s my dinner plans sorted out then: dubiously out-of-date Christmas pudding and possibly-ice-cream-but-equally-possibly-bechamel-sauce scraped from the bottom of the freezer drawer … after I’ve picked out the errant frozen peas and frozen brocolli that have stuck to it.

Assuming I don’t still feel feel sick that is: the pasta and ‘soup’ were not a pleasant combination … tasting of vaguely powdery, watery starch … and I hesitate to think what’s going to happen combined with the omelette sandwiches — maybe I should’ve opted for the fart-fuel after all.<sigh>.

I know, I know … there was no sex of any kind in this piece at all.

I’m not even gay and yet I’m such a prick-tease ;-P

—

¹ Interesting fart-fuel, granted, but I have to socialise in a few days time and I don’t want to be walking around smelling like something crawled up my arse and died.

² For reasons I won’t bore any of us with, I have yet to do something about the weekly egg/milk/bread delivery that I just can’t keep up with on my own — resulting in my having been obliged to eat a minimum of two eggs and four slices of bread a day … for what feels like months now … in order to keep the surplus down to eight pints of milk, two loaves of bread and three dozen eggs on any given day of the week.

³ Ha! A best before date for that stuff? Don’t make me laugh! There is no best time to eat it. It’s awful muck and the best you can hope for is that it just tastes of powdery water with a hint of on-the-turn-Brussels-sprouts-poorly-disguised-with-centuries-old-powdered basil/parsley/dillweed/something fusty.

⁴ Yes, the bread and eggs still need eating, I’m sorry to have to say.

⁵ I’ve nothing against rabbits and once possessed a nice angora pullover. ;)