Sex shopper, aisle phwoar please!
2011-09-20 13:30
David Moseley
When I was in my last few years of high school my parents decided to move us away from civilisation and into a wilderness area, a land that time forgot, as it were, far away from the corrupting influences of modern society.
We had little or no access to our friends, the best we could do for entertainment was watch old people cross the road, and getting to school (thankfully they kept my brother and I at the same exalted institution of secondary education - oh when the ‘Berg!), involved early morning traverses of at least two mountain ranges.
Still, living in Fish Hoek wasn’t all bad. The local Spar, undoubtedly tapping into the surplus of restless teenagers in the area, was overflowing with attractive schoolgirls manning their tills. It was the highlight of my weekend, then, to offer my grocery buying skills to my dear mother.
By doing this I saved her from the arduous two-and-a-half minute drive to the Spar and allowed myself the opportunity to stalk the aisles in the hope that one of the check-out girls would grasp breathlessly at my hands saying, “You’re not from around here, are you? You’re different. I can tell. You’re from the Suburbs. Save me. Get me out this place.” And we’d flee from Fish Hoek and live happily ever after in a cottage beneath the mountain somewhere. Alas, even with many Saturdays of trudging to the Spar and buying everything from pencils to clothes pegs, none of girls ever took the bait. They could have had it all.
The tables have turned
Anyway, I forgot about this (one must put rejection out of one’s mind fairly quickly) until fairly recently. I was standing in line at Woolies, dazed and confused as always by their lavish variety of flavoured waters and jelly sweets, when a husky come hither voice encouraged the “sex shopper” towards “aisle phwoar”. This, I thought, was a unique proposition even for the country’s most exclusive grocery store, until I readjusted my hearing and realised that Woolworths’ robotic Kathleen Turner had simply said “next shopper, aisle four”.
We’ve come a long way from employing disgruntled teens at tills, who didn’t mind scrambling your eggs before you even got home. But the steamy sexpot breathlessly calling out to shoppers in need must surely be our grandest innovation yet. While you stand in line, deciding between white peanut Chuckles or honeycomb dark chocolate truffle Chuckles or gooseberry flavoured sparkling water infused with hint of mint and camomile, you can now be carried off to a better place by the sensual droning of Aisle Number Now Asshole, or ANNA, for short.
Not that I’m complaining. At least ANNA talks to me. Unlike robust-looking blonde girl at Spar with permanent red nose who from some inexplicable reason I had a crush on. ANNA is the way forward. While I drifted gaily towards her or aisle Phwoar at least, I shovelled biltong, nougat, three YOU magazines, a breast pump and peanuts (I hate peanuts) into my basket. And all I wanted was a simple, plain, still water. I’m on to you Woolies. Next time, I’ll just find the nearest tap.
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