I entered Safeways supermarket just before midnight with a few wines under my belt, perusing the aisles for something to soak up the state of my inebriation before embarking on the trip home in the taxi.

I decided on half a cooked chicken (but isn’t this story about pea soup, you ask? – well, yes, don’t you worry, we’ll get there, we’ll definitely get there), but thought I would see if there was anything else that took my fancy before I left.

Now, this is the point in the story where I start to take a rapid decline and fall from grace. As I was searching for something else to satiate my wine fueled appetite, I ate the cooked chicken in the supermarket. If it wasn’t embarrassing enough that I had to approach the checkout with greasy fingers, I had to place a tray of cream buns alongside an empty tray of chicken. Oh, you’ve already eaten the chicken I see, says the checkout chick, before quickly smiling and laughing to casually brush it off, as she realises she had spoken out loud, and needed to do something to reduce my humiliation in front of everyone else in the line.

But, if only it ended it there. Reaching into my bag, I felt something cold and slimy. Very cold and slimy. Upon pulling out my brand new Oroton wallet from my $500 Oroton handbag, I was greeted with green sludge. Pea and ham soup with mint to be precise. I had put the container in my bag after leaving work, as I had only eaten half of it and thought I would have it at home for lunch the next day.

The more I pulled out of my bag, the worse it got. My mobile phone was covered in soup. My Gucci perfume was covered in soup. You name it, it was covered in soup. The checkout lady was ever so helpful as she handed me paper towels to clean my possessions, but it wasn’t until I opened my bag, that the real state of my predicament became apparent. It was literally swimming in soup – so much so, and Olympic diver could have scored a perfect ten in it.

Caught between my oh my gosh just get me out of this supermarket embarrassment, and panic about the soup ruining my handbag, I decided to step aside and let the next person in the queue pay for their purchases. I took my handbag to the nearest bin and continued to clean it out with paper towels, or should I say scoop it out with plastic bags.

I returned to the queue thinking I was finally on top of it, ready to pay for my cream buns (which at this stage I had lost my entire appetite for) and opened my wallet, only to be greeted with more pea and ham soup. Situation desperate, I realised I had to make my transaction, depart the premises and never return – stat.

However, I was out of cigarettes, so I dashed across to the cigarette counter, got my Vogue Super Slims and threw them on the conveyor belt along with my bank card, indicating to the lovely checkout lady that I wanted to get this transaction processed as soon as humanly possible.

But, yet again, the Gods of Thou Does Drink Too Much Retribution had not finished punishing me, for Anna (the checkout chick who is such a central character in this story, surely must be referred to by name by now) had her foot on the conveyor belt, and my bank card disappeared.

Anna ran off to get some long handed pliers to retrieve my card which had fallen to the floor between the very narrow crack of the conveyor belt and the counter, whilst ye of long skinny arms (if only the rest of my body followed suit), thrust my arm down to retrieve it, in order to end the ordeal as soon as humanly possible.

As I clutched the card in my hand, I said a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods above (vowing to say ten Hail Marys when I got home). Anna came running back with her pliers at the exact moment I tried to retrieve my arm from the very narrow crack (did I mention the crack was very narrow?) – but my elbow had other ideas. Try as I might, my arm would not dislodge itself without dislocating my elbow.

It was all I could do to not fall to the floor in mortification and embarrassment, which would have been a better option, than having to stand there with my arm wedged halfway down the counter for a good fifteen minutes until the Manager arrived. The queue was growing longer by the minute (seeing that it was late at night and only two registers were open), and the only thing I could do was stare down at the ground, so that no one would recognise who I was. The Manager began flapping about in concern, surely worried that I was going to sue him for public liability.

It was to be a lovely man in the queue who came through to save the day. I looked up for the first time in nearly thirty minutes, and his face shone like an angel. All that existed was him and I, as I blocked out of everything and everyone around me (as though as if I couldn’t see them, they didn’t exist and it all wasn’t really happening). He pulled at the conveyor belt, and it gave ever so slightly, but it was just enough for my elbow to wrangle itself free.

To add insult to injury (I feel that this incident could have coined this term, if it wasn’t for some poor sod before me, who has obviously endured a much more humiliating set of circumstances) I still had to pay for my purchases. With a handbag dripping in soup, and an aching arm, I paid and ran from the store vowing never to return.

Not my finest hour.

Image Credits: 1, 2, 3