Christmas Shopaholic(67)

The girl raises her eyebrows, which I think is needless, but reaches behind her and puts six glass jars on the counter.

They are quite bulky. But they’ll look fab!

I pick up a wicker shopping basket, load it up with the glass jars, head to a big container full of pulses, and fill up a jar. Then I check to see what I’m buying. Mung beans! I have no idea what to do with mung beans, but I can find a recipe.

I’m about to fill up a second jar, with barley, when I get a text from Luke: Can you buy some eggs? We’re out. I quickly text back, No problem, and head to the rustic, feathery eggs in their tray. I pick up two—then wonder what to do with them. They aren’t in boxes, so how do you carry them?

“Did you bring an egg box?” says the girl behind the till, who’s watching me. “We tell all our customers: If they want to buy eggs, please bring an old egg box. Otherwise you can buy a reusable bamboo one for a pound, but obviously we encourage recycling. Did you want to buy a bamboo one?”

I can read her snide expression exactly. She means, “Do you want to pollute the planet even further, you moron who couldn’t remember an egg box?”

“No, thanks,” I say, lifting my chin. “I have receptacles already.”

“You can’t carry eggs in jars,” she says as though I’m an idiot.

“Yes, I can,” I contradict her.

I gently put two eggs into a glass jar and put the lid on, then do the same with three more jars. I’ll just have to carry them carefully.

“Hi, Becky.” Jess’s voice greets me, and I whip round.

“Hi, Jess!” I give her a hug. “This place is amazing!”

“What are you doing?” She peers at my jars, looking puzzled.

“Buying eggs.” I manhandle my basket of glass jars to the counter, where the girl stares at it. “Hi,” I say in a nonchalant manner. “I’d like to pay for these, please.”

“Why didn’t you buy an egg box?” says Jess incredulously.

“Because I don’t want to ruin the planet with hollow consumption,” I reply, raising my eyes. As if she needs to ask.

“But half of your eggs are already broken,” says the girl, looking through the glass.

Drat.

“They’re for scrambled eggs,” I say briskly. “So it’s fine. How much is that?”

“It comes to ￡45.89,” she says. “Have you got a bag or do you need to buy one?”

For a moment I’m silent. No way am I admitting I forgot to bring a bag for life.

“I don’t believe in bags, actually,” I say at last. “My rule is, ‘Buy only what you can carry.’?”

“But you can’t carry all that,” says the girl.

“My sister will help me,” I say without missing a beat. “You’ll help me get all this out to the car, won’t you? And, Suze?” I raise my voice. “I don’t want to wreck the planet, so could you help me too?”

Between us we get all my jars into Suze’s boot and go back into the shop for Suze to pay.

“Excuse me?” the girl at the till says to me. “You forgot to take your last jar.” She holds out the empty jar and I take it nonchalantly, wanting to impress Jess in some way.

“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe I’ll fill it with…black turtle beans.”

I have no idea what you do with black turtle beans, but they sound totally worthy.

“I love black turtle beans,” I add to Jess. “They’re so vegan.”

I saunter over to a massive glass dispenser labeled Black Turtle Beans, place my jar underneath, and twist the handle. At once, small dried black beans start pouring out in a gush, and I smile at Jess. When the jar is nearly full, I casually twist the handle back—but it won’t go. I try again, but it’s stuck. Shit.

Shit.

To my horror, beans have started cascading over the top of my jar and clattering onto the floor. I desperately yank at the handle, but I can’t shift it, and the beans are coming faster and faster.

“What the hell?” says the girl behind the till, as everyone turns to stare at me and the torrent of beans. “Turn the handle back! Quick!”

“I’m trying!” I say, my face boiling. “What do you think I’m doing?”

The girl leaps up from her seat and hurries toward me, but even before she gets there, it’s too late. The clattering has come to an end. The dispenser is empty. There are beans all over the floor. I hear a sudden snort from Suze’s direction and look up to see her hand clamped over her mouth.

“I’ll buy them, obviously,” I say quickly, before the girl can utter a word. “All of them. They’ll be so useful for…dishes.”

“You’ll buy them all?” The girl in the sack eyes me in disbelief.

“Of course!”

“Uh-huh.” She thinks for a moment, then lifts her eyebrows. “How do you intend to transport them? Do you need a bag? By any chance?”

She sounds so snotty, I feel a flare of indignation.

“No, I do not need a bag,” I say coolly. “As I mentioned before, I’m an ethical, bag-free consumer. I will therefore carry them…er…in my skirt,” I say in inspiration.

“In your skirt?”