It is Monday, 10:59am. I am staring at my watch, listening to its gentle metronomic tick. Time is moving slowly, the second hand seeming to bend backwards on itself before making its laborious jump forwards. Twenty more seconds, nineteen. Time is a jester, taunting me, mocking me. 

Four seconds. Three.

I hold my breath.

11am.

I leap up triumphantly and sprint to the door, catching my rucksack strap on the banister in my haste and briefly careening backwards, before continuing my adrenaline fuelled journey. I grin as I lock the door behind me, and press play on my ‘Thrilling, Exciting and Excellent Activity’ playlist.

It is 11am on a Monday, and time for my weekly shop.

Oh, what the weekly shop means to me! Firstly, it’s a sensory playground. The bright colours, the rustling of packets, the beeps of the checkout scanners (I especially love the beeps – they make my list of top ten inanimate object sounds, just below the fizz on a newly opened bottle of Diet Coke).

It is an intellectual puzzle, getting into the mind of the store designer. Will the pesto be with the beans or the pasta – only the smartest 10% can guess! It is a glimpse into the human life, the human soul – what mishap befell the individual who was the last to see the wheely basket with all wheels attached? What compelled the reckless abandon to swap a bag of apples for a case of beer?

Alton Towers annual pass eat your heart out, supermarket entry is FREE!

In my euphoric state, I browse the aisles. Ah, the familiarity of the awkward stretch for the oat milk. The thrill of an abnormally shelved courgette. The shining yellow reduced stickers – be still, my beating heart!

And then I see it. I do a double take. I blink.

There it is, resplendent. Breath-taking. Ninety-five pence.

Bachelor’s Instant Pasta ‘n’ Sauce.

And all at once, there I was.

The year was 2010. It was a Thursday night. I was eight years old. My parents were at work, the only night when they both worked late. I was sitting on Nana’s sofa – cream, like everything in her house, save the penguin-themed trinkets that nested in every nook and cranny. The Chase was on the television. My impatient fingers were fiddling with the tail of Benji, my prized toy beagle. Nana and I were going to play catch soon, training for when I would inevitably become captain of the world’s first Olympic catch team.

But only after I’d eaten my Pasta ‘n’ Sauce.

I could hear the clattering of plates. I placed Benji to the side and patted him gently on the head. Poor chap already had enough pasta sauce dropped on him to last a lifetime. In Nana came, with a steaming bowl of Pasta ‘n’ Sauce balanced on a floral tray. She placed it on my lap and smiled.

I smiled back and tucked in, eager to play catch, and unaware that I would never know peace like Thursday nights at Nana’s house again.

In Selly Oak Aldi, I blink my way back to reality. I give a fond smile to the Pasta ‘n’ Sauce, consider even actually, physically saluting it, then continue on my merry way.

Then I stop.

Nothing in the world is stopping me from buying the Pasta ‘n’ Sauce. I am an adult. I am allowed to do that.

I take a few steps back.

Pick it up.

Smile.

‘We are the champions,’ Freddie Mercury sings into my ears.

‘Yes Freddie,’ I reply in my brain. ‘You, I and our Pasta ‘n’ Sauce really are the champions.’

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