By some small miracle I manage to locate the one with four functioning wheels. My prayers to the wayward gods of the shopping trolley have been answered. I steer it proudly through the fresh veg (singleton groping avocados) on past the meat and fish (lovers gazing at a tiny 30-day-aged steak) and into the dairy section. And there I count them. The cheddars.
Yes, I am that person.
25, or thereabouts. Some sporting little more than a strength rating as if somehow flavour is irrelevant. Or perhaps a given? We all know what it tastes...
