I've read more than once that shopping can be a cathartic experience. The concept of retail therapy is no longer just a yuppie myth. But never before have I returned from a shopping trip feeling so emotionally drained. And I didn't even use my credit card.

No, I wasn't following some Cosmo article's advice to splash out on some flashy perfume to make up for a downward turn in my turbulent love life. And I didn't sign a credit agreement that had me promising that any shortfall in cash would be made up for in my blood. Nope. I was out to buy potatoes. In Asda. Can't get much blander than that.

Now we've all heard that trendy clothes shops play club-style music to get you into the party mood. Then, when you try on that dress in a fluorescent orange that should really be left to anorexic female members of the emergency services, you start to imagine yourself grooving the night away under ultra-violet light and forget that you only came out for a navy-blue cardigan. Fast food manufacturers manipulate the bright colours of their packaging to make you crave their products and even adjust the set of their uncomfortable plastic chairs so that you don't hang around too long while you're eating it. Marks and Spencers put their knickers near the sandwiches. Nuff said.

But piped music in supermarkets? What's the point of that? It's usually just a background dirge of rotten cover versions that makes you want to head straight for the door. If they want you to browse by the ciabatta, then a reggae version of Agadoo by a band of castrated karaoke fiends hardly creates the right atmosphere, does it?

Not so in my local Asda. I'm usually standing by the chocolate when it happens. I'm bravely pushing my trolley past the miniature mint Aeros when I hear a familiar tune. Once it was "After all that we've been through" by Chicago, today it was some old romantic standard by Bread that Dad sometimes played for Mum when he thought that my sister and I were asleep. Not even covers but the real versions. The ones you know you shouldn't like but just can't help it. And all of a sudden, I'm thinking about a long lost love. My throat is swelling up. My eyes are brimming. I have to read the ingredients on the back of a Curly Wurly while I wait for the moment to pass.

But it never passes quickly enough. And before I know it, I've tossed that family-sized packet of Maltesers into my trolley alongside my celery and crispbreads. I just about make it through the check-out without cracking up, then I collapse on a wall in the car-park and stuff down four Cadbury's Wildlife bars in a desperate attempt to boost my levels of phenalalynine - the wonder drug found in chocolate that replicates feelings of being in love - to a comfortable level before I drag the rest of my shopping home.

The supermarkets have already been good enough to banish sweets from the racks beside the check-outs, so that bored children can't drive their parents mad by whining for a Rolo. Now, I'm asking that they do the same with background music. No more weepies, please. At least not until I'm safely past the confectionery.

 

The Ambassador went on to prove that he knew more than one way of spoiling his guests.

Home