Cat food aisle proves festive refuge

Tuesday, December 23 08

It was the morning before the morning before Christmas and Mrs Bennet was sleep deprived. She’d just wiped cream all over her face to discover it wasn’t cream at all, but hair gel. Half asleep, her eyes hadn’t registered the difference in the two pots. But her skin quickly did when the stinging started. It was with a certain red glow about her person, that she made another mistake – venturing into a certain supermarket with the twin Bennets due to a desperate need for wet wipes and nappies. She hadn’t meant to leave supplies so empty, but festivities, present hunting, wrapping, delivering, card writing, visiting and nursing poorly children had been her main pre-occupation. It was only when the twins were wearing the last nappies in the house, she realised something had to be done. She didn’t want to be caught short like last month, when Miss Rosie Bennet had been wearing a make-shift nappy – a t-towel of the Scottish Highlands, knotted either side of her hips – because once cleaning a rather dirty derriere, Mrs Bennet realised she had nothing to put on it.
Running on empty was something she was guilty of doing as was running out of nappies. However the rest of the town were not buying nappies, but were ravaging the store of every sprout, carrot, brandy butter, chestnut and indigestion tablets.
They were so short of trolleys, Mrs Bennet had to opt for a double trolley consisting of a baby and toddler seat, which suited the twins perfectly.
“You’ve left one of the twins at home I see,” remarked one of the supermarket assistants. Mrs Bennet raised her eyebrows, bemused.
“No, they’re both here.”
“Oh, I thought you’d brought your middle one along instead. Gosh they’re so different aren’t they?”
The twins just grinned, lapping up the attention. And off they went, happily pointing at people in Clanger-like voices as their driver swerved sharply to the right to avoid the vegetable scrum. A double trolley and a determined mass of bodies vying for the last bag of parsnips was a recipe for disaster and Mrs Bennet felt exhausted from her game of dodgem cars with shoppers and shelves. She took refuge in the cat and dog food aisle. It was empty. Five daughters and husband were enough mouths to feed, but she was half tempted to buy a pet just to stay in the oasis of Pedigree Chum.
On her return, she vowed not to go anywhere near the place again until New Year. But realised with horror, she’d forgotten the nappies after all so promptly used up her “phone-a-friend” card for assistance. As she did so, the doorbell rang. A handsome man presented her with a large festive bouquet as big as her dining table.
“Oh are they for me?”
“No Madam, they are for a Mr Bennet,” came the reply, “Does he live here?”
“Yes he does. Who are they from?” Mrs Bennet asked a little peeved that her husband had a secret admirer.
“He will have to look at the envelope attached Madam.” And with that the messenger had gone, before Mrs Bennet could reply.
“He won’t. I will,” she muttered, and tore open the accompanied note, which, she discovered, had been sent by another man.
Confused, she rang Mr Bennet, who laughed and confessed his so called “lover” was “another man and his wife” and the flowers were really for her.
Although Mrs Bennet’s gel-stung face matched the festive floral display, her relief helped her hot cheeks to lighten somewhat. After all Mr Darcy falling for Mr Bennet was definitely not in her plot.