Standing in a basket queue at our small local Waitrose supermarket, waiting to be served, I overheard a young man behind me describe a woman, who had just passed the window outside the store towards the car park, to his girlfriend/wife. I had to agree with him, I had also noticed she had earlier wheeled her trolley past the basket queue, bypassing the main tills. And, as we departed, we did encounter her wheel her trolley back into the store with only one item left in it. The first conversation in the attached story is verbatim as I recall it, the rest of the story is pure fiction. I have changed the names to protect the innocent and guilty alike.

Shopping’s a chore I abhor, so only I accompany my wife Penny when my work shifts allow. Although we drive for a monthly stock-up at the out of town hypermarket across the county line, and a weekly trolley-ful shop at the local supermarket, Penny walks down to the local supermarket every afternoon after work for bread, milk and fresh produce.

On one particular day, while carrying the hand basket for Penny, I noticed a well-dressed but matronly figured woman shopping almost exclusively for booze. Well that’s all her trolley contained, bottles of spirits, other than a bag of dog biscuits. I guess her age was mid-fifties to late-fifties, about thirty years older than us. Her hair was clearly coloured to disguise her grey hair and had that odd blue tinge to it that older woman seem to go for. What caught my eye though was an expensive brand of malt whisky in her trolley, emphasised by a large electronic security tag enveloping the cap. She’d loaded up other expensive brands as well, yet no mixers or soft drinks. She didn’t seem the party type so I wondered if she was an alcoholic, if she was she was blessed with good taste because all the booze was top shelf.

While Penny and I were queuing at the quick serve counter with our meagre selection of perishables in a hand basket, I noticed that Mrs Blue-Rinse pushed her trolley past the main tills with a distracted air, turned her trolley around and paused just behind me at the back of the hand-basket queue. Odd behaviour, I thought. However, I was distracted by a till’s flashing red light signalling assistance. The supervisor left her post and was soon engrossed in some technical problem with a till.

Mrs Blue-Rinse saw her chance, and casually pushed her trolley past the basket queue tills, the customer service desk, the free coffee counter for card members, through the automatic doors and out of the store to the car park, crossing the series of plate glass windows opposite where all the tills were, calm as you like. Penny and I watched her, the useless security tag in plain sight on that expensive bottle of malt whisky.