Perhaps you knew this, but I certainly didn't: there are women who go shopping every day.
I don't think they actually have to, they could probably just plan their lives better, but "going shopping" becomes an activity, especially, perhaps, amongst mother's and older women - they may have held down jobs, once, but not any more.
What happens is that they "run into each other" at PnP, Checkers or Woolworths, or whatever, and compare prices, and talk about new products, which they either buy or don't buy, and then they go for coffee.
Once upon a time I went with on one of these expeditions.
My wife was about to start a new job and we were in a quandary because there was a time lag between her starting date and the availability of our new child-minder. So I stepped up and said that I would take leave to stand in for her. After all, you don't want to have to apply for leave on your first day of work - it does not create a promising image!
So there I was, baby, breakfast, nappies and all.
Suddenly a car pulled up in the driveway and my wife's pals spilled out, toddlers-and-all.
A word about toddlers: they get around. Fast. In many cases, their legs are already making walking movements before they hit the ground. All you have to do is get to touch-down, let go, and they're off!
And so it was. You get used to conducting a conversation with someone else in a sound and movement vortex, to discover that Times have Changed. Children no longer only Speak when Spoken To.
"We knew that you were here and just thought that you might want to come shopping with us" the leader (yes, there was a leader) announced cheerfully, in a voice which did not indicate any possibility that I might decline.
"Well, I - er - I just need to wipe the baby down and get dressed myself …"
"Stand aside!" She instructed imperiously "and go and get dressed!"
One of them (you see, I'm being careful not to Name any Names here) scooped up our baby (no name) to do whatever the hell I had been supposed to do;
Another went off to the kitchen to make tea and look for biscuits (she was back momentarily: "You need biscuits")
And I was despatched to the bathroom ("Go and shave and shower and get dressed!")
I nearly responded "Yes, ma'am" but was concerned about a possible reprimand for being sarky, so I left it and trooped off to my bathroom.
In an amazingly short time (after being yelled at twice through the bathroom door: "Hurry up!") we headed out to the car and off to the shopping centre (I told you, no names here, though that would have been the first thing a wife would have demanded to know, because - because it's important, you fool!)
So far, so good - though the conversation in the car had been such a cacophony that I was dizzy when we got to our destination. On the way it had occurred to me that if having one wife is a sometimes pressured situation - imagine what it would be like having three! And please don't think about the sex potential. At this point I was practically a eunuch.
The kids (toddlers, all) were loaded into a single shopping trolley (those things are stronger than you think) and the invasion kicked into gear. The kids, of course, all knew each other and presented a Unified Force and treated this as a total hoot. Unlike the Blue Train in Green Point, the time and distance of this ride was indeterminate and the passing environment varied from minute to minute.
I learned that navigating a trolley full of toddlers through a crowded shopping centre is a very specific skill. I had gallantly volunteered for the First Shift at driving this barrel of noise and jollity but it was swiftly seized away from me when my level of competence was seen to be a clear and present danger.
Firstly, there's this ongoing, excited, high-pitched kiddy conversation. More of a problem is the obvious but hitherto unconsidered problem (unconsidered by me, that is) that three kids equals six little arms and hands, all protruding in different directions, grabbing things off passing shelves, poking strangers - and one of the kids had got hold of his mother's purse, and credit cards, and started handing them out to curious passers by (as far as we know, they were subsequently all retrieved from the amused recipients. People are very kind.) But my solid gold antique Parker ballpoint, a treasure - that was never retrieved. Much health and good fortune may it have brought to the happy recipient.
"Get a haircut" I was instructed, and pointed in the direction of a hairdresser. I'd never been to a hairdresser before. I'd always gone to Aldo's, the barbershop on the other side of town (the petrol cost more than the haircut) with the red-and-white candy-striped pole. This place had no candy-striped pole and it had the pungent smell of aerosol-driven hairspray and other nameless horrors. And it was noisy because everyone was talking loudly. Different from the sound of the scissors or the electric cutter, cutting through the sullen silence at Aldo's. The minute I stepped through the door I got a headache from the vicious mix of perfumes swirling around in the place.
I was startled by a sudden voice at my side: "He needs a plain short back and sides but not too much off the front. He's going bald". One of Them had followed me here. But this was the straw that broke the camel's whatsit as far as I was concerned. Nobody tells me how to cut my hair. That's my wife's prerogative. We've crossed a line here. My bland, marshmallow-man exterior melted off and out stepped The Rock. Smokin' hot, babe!
"I've changed my mind" I announced (as if I'd ever given a clue that I had one). "No haircut today. Let's move on!"
The rest of that expedition is just a blur in my memory. I have a medical condition which manifests in shopping centre's.
First there's that Shopping Centre Walk. It's a slower pace with shorter strides. Whilst your mind and eyes are focused on the endless rows of merchandise, you slow down your walking speed incrementally, your pulse goes down, your blood pressure goes up, your stomach muscles collapse forward, your lumbar spine takes strain and increases its concave inward curve. In addition to which your breathing becomes incrementally shallower,
Worse however, is what it does to your neural system (I'm talking about myself here, I can't speak for others): it starts with a tingling feeling in the soles of my feet and progresses upwards in the form of numbness, up past my ankles, to my calves, through my glutus maximus, buttocks, lumbar spine, abdominal muscles, thoracic spine, intercostal muscles (now I may suspect the onset of kidney stones, an asthma attack, serious indigestion or just good ole' angina and I start to pay close attention to the subtle differences in those various manifestations of discomfort, just to be safe …). But the good thing is the one invariable next step is that everyone will insist that that I must SIT DOWN and the solution is the same in all cases: COFFEE SHOP!
But before we even find one, the numbness progresses relentlessly - up through my neck (tension headache coming on - Panado required) and finally into my brain. At this point I become a zombie, no use to man or beast. As an emergency intervention, intravenous administration of coffee is required. And orally administered chocolate cake. Too unresponsive to look for my wallet. Someone else will have to pay. Someone else has been looking after my son all along, so no change there. Just CARRY ON, COMRADES - VENI, VIDI, VICI, now let's all bloody well go home!
The important thing to remember is, DONT CALL HATZOLAH - this isn't a medical emergency, it's a psychological implosion - it will pass.
An important decision is taken in the car on the way home: my son will go and play with his friends. He will be fed, clothed - even bathed, if necessary - till my wife gets home. I however, should go and lie down.
It's a jungle out there, man…
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© Harry Friedland 3 May 2022.
