I woke up this morning wanting nothing more than a home cooked meal. After a week of Butler’s wraps, Rendezvous pizzas, Dr. Noodle, and a drunken trip to Empire (okay […]
It was a bright, shiny morning as I strolled down Market Street. My stomach was practically hugging me with gratitude and I swore I could hear the sliding doors of Tesco calling my name. Stepping across the linoleum-tiled threshold, my spirits were soaring at the thought of embarking on this gourmet adventure.
It was all downhill from there. You know why? Because Tesco fucking sucks.
Walk in after sunrise on any given day, and the store looks like its been ravaged by wolves. As far as I know hurricane seasons in St Andrews are few and far between, so where is all the goddamn bread? I’m not asking for freshly baked baguettes here, just throw me a couple chemically infused slices of Wonderbread. ‘Sorry, no can do!’ the rows of empty shelves mock, ‘How about some gluten free, calorie negative, wheatless hamburger buns instead?’
I give up on my sandwich dream, reasoning that a salad is probably better for me anyway. To my chagrin, the vegetable aisle is no better than the bread section. Who’s the genius behind the ‘Washed and Ready to Eat!’ bags of mixed greens? ‘Wilted and Ready to Die’ is more like it. I’d rather throw some Ranch dressing on the lawn of the quad than give that shit a try. ‘Hey! but didn’t you see we’re having a £1 special on dragon fruit?’Great, the next time I’m overcome with the urge to whip up a mythical citrus compote I’ll give you guys a call. In the meantime, can someone please let me in on the big secret behind getting your hands on an avocado in this fucking place?
If there were ever an appropriate time to elicit a cry for help this would be it. Unfortunately for me, the last time a cellphone had service in here was probably the last time someone actually bought a Tesco DVD. My brain is suddenly all too aware of my need for a stiff drink. I brave the beverage aisle with my last scraps of hope. The choice is as follows: bottle of Lambrini or a flask of Tesco value gin? No dice there. Lambrini tastes like burnt walnuts and I’m still convinced anything ‘Tesco Value’ is about 5 years past its expiry date.
Remember my soaring spirits? Yeah, they’ve been crushed into a million little pieces and are currently being trampled by the stilettos of drunk freshers in the ‘Self Check Out’ line. Out of frustration, I absentmindedly swipe a jar of instant coffee off a display. I may not get my sandwich, but no way will I let Tesco interfere with my caffeine fix. It takes 15 minutes and two rounds of ‘Please wait for assistance’ for me to pay for my single item, but somehow I make it out alive. Walking home, I feel delirious. I need a cup of coffee more than I need to grow a pair and walk the 20 minutes out to Morrisons. With my keys still in the door, I run to the kitchen, turn on the kettle, and set my jar of instant coffee on the counter. In horror, my eyes catch a glimpse of the label and I can feel the tears welling up from the pit of my empty stomach. Decaf, it reads. Life’s a fucking bitch sometimes.
Written by Clare Sheehan, standpoint writer