Forsooth!
Yesterday, along with my most estimable companion, I journeyed to Shakespeare country and verily must I tell thee that we found ourselves in Stratford-upon-Avon, in the confectionery aisle of ye olde supermarket of Waitrose – though, by my troth, ‘twere a shop that by any other name would sell a sweet.
But, I prithee, harken to my words. For it was not delights detestable to dentists that we were desirous of. Rather, it was an accompaniment for the pottage of pasta that we were much in need of.
And so it was that I was soon enquiring, ‘Dolmio, Dolmio, wherefore art thou Dolmio?’ because, to the relief of all students of English Literature, on chancing upon that particular brand of bolognese sauce, we were dispirited to discover that the store’s own-range recipe was not to hand.
This was a most grievous matter to my wife, the lady protesting a little too much, methinks, when she bit her thumb at a passing member of staff, described the hapless scullion as a logger-headed clotpole, and called down curses on Sir John of Lewis and all of his, allegedly, beslubbering partners.
Meanwhile I proffered her a preciously prized pabulum of the princely provisioner of piscine pies, Charles de Bigham. ‘Let’s have this,’ I suggested, adding ‘as you like it’ by way of explanation before leading her away from the aisle of altercation to gather the remaining comestibles we required for our week away.
Once we’d finished, we approached the self-service tills and I noticed someone who looked eager to help us pack all that we had purchased.
‘Is this a bagger I see before me?’ I hollered at the thought of some assistance. But my words attracted the attention of a number of security guards, who, in their twos, surrounded us such that, when we’d paid and eventually left the store, we exited pursued by a pair.
And as for ever returning, I’m not sure we will – as I think we may have been bard!
Real aged post:
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