Rachel did the weekly grocery shopping on her own. Every Saturday. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year. Husband, Phillip, stayed at home and watched the horse races on television.
“You could at least come and help push the supermarket trolley,” complained Rachel. So he did.
“Look at the price of those bananas,” said Phillip. “It’s enough to make you go bananas.”
“Look at that fruit cake buying a cake over there at the cake stall.”
“That woman at the fruit stand’s a bit of a peach. Nice pear she’s got.”
“The fruit department manager’s got it easy. Bit of a plum job.”
Rachel sighed. “Why don’t you just shut up and push the trolley,” she said.
“That woman there,” said Phillip, gesticulating towards the meat section, “is mutton dressed as lamb.”
“Something’s a bit fishy about the price of that salmon.”
“How much longer before we get out of this joint? We’re packed in here like sardines. I’m roasting.”
Rachel had had enough. “Oh for goodness sake!” she spluttered. “This is the last time I’m taking you shopping.”
It was exactly what Phillip intended.