First Post

I have been tipped into profound depression today by an email from local supermarket.

I am lucky enough to live near one of central London’s best and biggest sellers of premium largely organic impeccably sourced groceries, and I, along with all the yummy mummies in the area fill a trolley there a couple of times a week, either in person or online. The supermarket knows that I use soy milk and like purple sprouting broccoli. It has logged my preference for Prosecco over Cava and noted that when it is sunny I usually buy Rose. It has clocked that whenever I purchase avocado, I always get mozzarella and basil too. My supermarket, I sometimes feel, knows more about me than my partner. Why then has it just sent me an email offering me an opportunity to WIN in very excited capital letters, tickets to see Cliff Richard? I have nothing against the man personally, but he does represent a demographic that I hope I am not, or at least not yet, a part of. How could the place I trust with my daily dietary needs get my cultural preferences so unutterably wrong? Or, does buying organic mean over the hill? Is wanting ethically farmed poultry synonymous with dad dancing, wooly jumpers and Living Doll? Must my love of a good Rose d’anjou on a sunny day necessarily have to mean I sing along to Summer Holiday?  Sadly, this shop is not alone. I am not averse to sensible suggestions, buy why does my preferred search engine believe that browsing for vintage DVF mean I’d like to meet Muslim singles? Can my occasional foray into online auction catalogues of rare books and antique furniture really indicate a love of pre-fabricated garden sheds? I sincerely hope not, but something in my electronic history must point to it. And come to think of it, I could do with somewhere to store all those old Shadows records.