A couple of Sundays ago I was out in North London with my flatmate, his girlfriend and his brother and on the way back we decided to pick up something quick for dinner.
We’re walking to the bus stop when my housemate points and says ‘Waitrose’ – already I’m prepared for the worst.
I never feel comfortable in that place. They should have pictures of Jeremy Clarkson outside with a sign saying ‘You have to be at least this middle-class to enter’.
Not wanting to be the nay-sayer I agree and we begin wandering around looking for the basics for a lazy Sunday lunch so I amble over to the rotisserie chicken counter.
As a basic rule I am less and less surprised by what I see in supermarkets these days. Living in London anything goes in the local Safeway.
A sight I see more often than others is children eating.
Mothers too weary to fight with their nippers give up and let their child eat a packet of crisps as they walk round the store, presenting the empty bag to an annoyed cashier at the till to pay for it.
So – with that in mind – I’m waiting for my lemon and garlic whole chicken when a man sidles up to the counter next to me struggling to open a large box.
I turn my head to see what he’s doing just as he begins to sink his teeth into a Waitrose family size quiche.
I know that food shopping on an empty stomach is a bad idea but are you really that hungry?
I’m on the tube with my brother and we’re coming back from watching the Emirates Cup. I’m happy that we’ve got seats until he reminds that we’ve just lost to Juventus and I put my stern face back on.
I remind him that we need to change at Holborn so we amble towards the doors. As the train pulls into the station we notice three girls dressed as Vikings complete with horn hats and extra small Scandinavian smocks (which I doubt were ever worn during that era).
My brother tells me that it must be a hen party, we both shake our heads and tut and such behaviour. As we get off the train I sneakily crane my head to get another look until my I receive a sharp brotherly nudge in the ribs for being so obvious.
As I walk up the platform I notice two older women sitting on a bench on the platform talking in quiet hushed tones.
As we approach, I realise they are also staring at the three Norse woman but for quite different reasons.
The train finishes pulling out of the station, the women’s whispers suddenly become audible. Without warning the lead Viking drops her purse and spins around to pick it up.
We’re all caught red-handed.
Thinking they’ve been caught bitching about strangers the waiting women begin to grin guiltily.
I pretend that the green laces of my Adidas are the most interest things I have ever seen.
Meanwhile, my brother struggles to contain his laughter…