Sunday was shopping day, as it is every week. I dread it every week. Every time Craig and I will argue, shout at each other, and make-up in spectacular fashion in our local Tesco (Reading, Berks). It’s well worthy of a watch - we’re the couple you simply love-to-hate.

Before we even walk through the automatic doors of hell we’re bickering reprimanding each other for not remember to bring the coupons we’ve been saving, or a pound for the trolley. I don’t really know why I bother going - the only thing I can categorically say we’re running out of is shampoo and conditioner. I have no idea what we’re low on in terms of food or cleaning supplies. Not only that, I hate searching for deals and comparing prices - but Craig seeks out those yellow and red signs like a CSI dog at Cromwell Street.

Immediately we’re presented with no less than seven aisles of home and entertainment. Craig like to skip these but I like to browse them, probably because I’m stalling the inevitable fights that are around the corner. I’ll casually toss in clothes pegs, tea spoons and tea towels and Craig will be mentally adding up the total - “Gem, you might aswell get crap like this from the Pound Shop” - The Pound Shop! That’s all very well darling but when do you ever go in there?! The one in the town centre smells of wee and is located on the edge of the market where the drunks hang out.

Moving on to baby products. Now we always get the same things. Pamper Baby Dry 4+’s, a tub of Aptamil Stage 3, some Heinz biscotti, Heinz Peachy Porridge Mix, and a few jars of baby food in case we fancy a take away and it’s too fatty / grown up for Dexter. Simple, right? NO. Somehow it still takes Craig a good ten minutes to get around there. He likes looking at the different flavoured food and seeing how many lumps he can spot in the jar. He’ll look at all the baby cereals and point out ones we’ve already tried and discarded because Dex turned his nose up. It’s truly painful.

On to fruit and veg. This is where I get bored. I can honestly say that if medical science ever comes up with a pill that means I don’t have to eat again, I’d take it. I couldn’t tell you what we had for dinner last night, or ever tell you what my favourite dish is. I eat because I have to, not because I enjoy it. Yet still, Craig will ask me what vegetables I’d like. When I say “any”, it’s like I’ve asked him to solve the immigration dilemma in thirty seconds. This gives him license to walk up and down the aisles several times before putting in the same vegetable selection he bought the week before, and the week before that. My old man hates making decisions about food.

Shame that because it’s exactly what he has to do for the next 25 odd aisles. The worst ones by far are the meat aisles. Not only is there simply too much for him to look at and decide over, it’s also bloody cold! Dexter starts to get bored and chew the filthy metal pound-pusher chain on the trolley, and I get restless. Craig will talk out loud about the meals he’s planning and I’ll switch off. This is fine for ten minutes, even fifteen, give it half an hour and I’m losing my temper. I start to remind him about things on the television I want to watch in an hours time, or the fact that Dexter is ‘getting tired’ to get him moving.

The gravy and herb aisle is like going to a Blue concert and having Duncan announce that he’s decided he likes girls. I’m literally willing Craig towards it. This aisle is flanked by the last of the meat (chicken and sausages). It’s here I fall in love with Craig again and start pinching his bum or kissing his neck. Thing is, he’s usually pretty annoyed with me at this point and tells me to pack it in.

He chills out more by the cereals and beer (funny that) but this is when Dexter decides to practice the extent of his vocabulary at full shout mode. As parents we find it cute but the other Sunday shoppers (who like to “get on with it”… like myself) find their ears bleeding. Cute turns to embarrassment pretty quickly when Dex gets over excited and his echoes can be heard over by the Crayola.

The final bits like bin bags and washing up liquid pass pretty much without incident (we’ve attuned our ears to our baby boy at this point and given up trying to distract him). I usually start popping things on the conveyor belt whilst Craig grabs things he’s forgotten. When it comes to packing, I’ll do the light items and shove the bottles of fizzy water to Craig (it’s an unwritten law that men carry the bags that cut off the blood supply to your fingers) and it’s all harmonious again.

Until next time…