SHELLEY WRIGHT'S WRY LOOK AT LIFE

A WEEK into the new millennium and I don't know about you but my life has been dominated by shop rage and if it continues like this I may kill someone in the very near future, let me tell you.

It's either that or commit hari-kiri myself next time I find myself wedged solid between 10,000 trolleys and every nutter you can think of in the crisp aisle anyway - and I know which I prefer.

Though, saying that, at this moment in time I don't think you will ever find me in the crisp or any other supermarket aisle again for as long as I live because I've had just about enough.

In fact, right now, I don't care if I have to eat that packet of frostbitten fish fingers that have been festering in the bottom drawer of my freezer since I moved in 18 months ago - you won't catch me anywhere near such stores for love nor money, nor food actually, now you mention it.

I think I'd actually rather starve, but judging by the way people are racing around, sweeping whole shelves of food into their trollies we must be heading for a nuclear holocaust anyway, so who cares?

Everyone seems to have gone stark-staring, money-spending, everything must go bonkers like contestants on Supermarket Sweep and I'm wondering if an unexpected strain of the millennium bug has sent everyone wild in the aisles Dale Winton-style. But enough is enough thank you very much. You can stop shopping now. Christmas and New Year is over. There is no two-minute time limit in force. War has not broken out and Britain is not about to start rationing again - though judging by the in-store fighting and lack of produce on the shelves you could be forgiven for thinking it had.

I wouldn't mind but I'd like to know where all the food stockpiled for Christmas and the millennium has gone because I think I'll be eating salted peanuts and Pringles for the next 2000 years.

And I popped into the supermarket during my lunch break on Millennium Eve for some fresh baps only to find thousands of people wandering the aisles and a baskets-only queue which began in greetings cards, snaked through frozen food and ended up nestled somewhere in nappies.

Worst thing was I'd remembered my grandma's birthday last minute, picked up a peace lily on my way past and was forced to fight my way through the hordes, simultaneously trying to protect it from over zealous shoppers while carrying a basket full of bread and my coat.

Never mind the Krypton Factor, I looked like I'd completed the assault course in double-quick time by the time I got back to work. Honestly, I don't sweat that much in two-hours at the gym. Don't you find that, upon closer inspection, supermarkets are full of very strange people? I was stood in the queue next to a woman who, for a reason unknown to me, felt compelled to keep as close as possible and kept pushing her basket into the back of my leg.

Then there's those who loiter in the wines and spirits section, weighing up the cheapest bottles of cider compared to their percentage of alcohol by volume, and those who just seem to loiter, like it's some kind of social event.

It's not my idea of fun though, that's for sure. In fact, the way I'm feeling, I'd keep well out of my way if I were you.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.