August 9

I try to get the trolley past him but it won’t go. My trolley nudges the back of his thighs.

‘Sorry.’

He turns to face me. A dreamy looking late middle-aged man with a thick blue sweater – surely the wrong choice for a hot summer day.

‘I can’t get past, sorry.’

‘Fine. Sure.’ He nods and pulls himself in and upright. I try to get past. The trolley goes a short way forward, but, because it’s wider at my end, it won’t go past.

The thought hits me quickly: he’s too fat. ‘Still can’t get past, sorry.'

‘Oh, Hah! Too much of this,’ he says giving his paunch a little light slap. The blue sweater was hiding it well but now I can see it, bulging like a monstrous mole hill.

I laugh politely, delicately, wondering how this will end. ‘You’ll have one later on in life,’ says the man, stepping out of the way. He talks in a happy, drunken fashion. It’s early Sunday morning and the harsh supermarket lights dull the senses. ‘Bit more drink,’ he continues. ‘And when you’ve got more dosh.’

I laugh and move on. Then I wonder what he meant? Did he think I looked poor? Was he trying to put me down and defend his paunch, the swollen evidence of his material success? I consider myself lucky and forget about it.