Supermarkets - A Place for Pyjamas?

Tesco announced this week that they are to ban people, of the lady variety, from wearing pyjamas when they go out shopping at their stores.

One must say, one agrees wholeheartedly. There have been a couple of occasions when one has been perusing the produce of the day at our local supermarket and been shocked at what one has witnessed.

Well, perhaps supermarket is too strong a description; it’s more like a mediocremarket, if the truth be known. The shelves are very nearly always empty; stock rotation appears to mean the staff turn the product round to hide the label and one’s supply of gin is only guaranteed by the ‘Reserved’ sign one had Chu Me stick on discretely.

Anyhoo … twice, one has seen young ladies wandering around the aisles in multicoloured cotton pyjama bottoms; one in a pair of bunny slippers and the other in a rather ragged pair of green flip-flops (which oddly enough, matched the colour of her feet).

Neither of these individuals were wearing appropriate undergarments and the latter had thought it a good idea to don a G-string; the poor device had been hoisted to an unslightly height between her buttocks and was clinging on for dear life to the ring of fat flesh that was hovering over the elasticated waistband.

Gliding elegantly up the aisle behind her, one’s attention was glued to the hypnotic swaying of her ample buttocks and the vertical rippling of posterior after each heel made contact with the tiled floor.

Though these sights concerned me greatly, one must confess that they were nothing compared to that of seeing old Mr. Craddick as he passed through the tills last Friday evening. He had obviously been out to replenish his stock of Whisky and he too was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms; the only problem was his front flappage was open and ….well, poppets can only imagine what was peering out at the poor check-out operator and the world beyond.

As one sashayed past till number 4 - Chu Me close behind with our trolley of replenishments - the supervisor Doreen approached the offending party.

“Mr. Craddick” She cried, “You’re exposing yourself!”

He turned to her in his unshaven state - with bodily bouncing occurring at his downstairs area – and shouted, “What y’ talkin’ about your stupid woman! Exposing mesel’ to what?”

One was just passing him at that point and he caught one’s eye. My eyes dropped downward toward his exposed wrinkled man-biscuit.

“To ridicule, dear, if that shrivels up any more!”

Immediately, he looked down and tucked what little he had back into its cotton housing and his face went a shade of red one had always sought for a hearth rug.

Crisis averted, one made one’s way to the carpark outside.

One thinks the lesson has been learned that it is not only the lady variety who offend one’s eye in such garmentry; the threat of an unleashed man-biscuit over the fish counter can be equally discerning.