TRUMP WINS! I’m headed to Iceland.
I went into a Lidl once. Call it curiosity, boredom, or just fancied seeing what all the fuss was about. Live life on the edge, that’s me. I meandered down a few haphazardly stacked rows of ‘Wellogs’ Corn Flakes*, ‘Feinz’ Ketchup* and ‘Balkers’ crisps* before turning on my heal and hot footing it to the nearest Sainsbury’s. True story. Something about it felt like a post-Soviet era grocers. Snobby, out of touch and elitist? You bet. What can I say? I’m a sucker for branding. This occasionally jars with The Man, who suffers sporadic episodes of RAUF– Random Acts of Unexplained Frugality. This means the odd purchase of generic Paracetomol or ”brufin’ as he calls it, finds its way into the medicine cabinet. I’m not talking about Boots or Tesco brand, but the NO-NAME, no-name, the kind that skids down the esophagus like a jagged piece of chalk. Call me decadent but I fancy a bit of throat-friendly coating on my tablets. For kicks he sneaks Basics brand loo roll into the bathroom. Thank you, but no. If I fancied sandpaper on my bits I’d do my shopping at B&Q. Andrex or the highway for me, baby. Yes. There is a difference. Something about that 40p saving makes him feel virtuous. Irksome.
It was not long ago he sauntered home with an Iceland bag. ICELAND. Right. This calls for intervention. Or does it? Perhaps the Man is onto something. With the likes of Aldi and Lidle so on-trend, suddenly poo-pooing such establishments seems so terribly bourgeois. In an effort to shrug off some of my entrenched, if misguided prejudices I took the plunge and ventured into the newly refurbished Iceland near me. (Yes. There is one in luvvie-ville. Imagine.) Despite my longing for an M&S to supplant the bright orange signage blighting the high street, twas not to be. Sigh. Moving on. Keen to shake its daytime-telly watching, car-crash Kerry Katona associations, Iceland’s niche in frozen food has a way to go reaching hot-spot status among us artisan bread buying, soy latte swilling, organic truffled beef munching yummies of Zone 2. Still, for the sake of research you see, I ventured in for a looky-loo.
Initial impressions were good. Clean, polished floors worthy to eat off and wide, airy aisles packed with technicolour and critically, THAWED produce line the entrance. Further along and what’s this I see? BRANDS. Glorious, comforting household brand names line shelves nestled neatly adjacent the (un)familiar freezers, most a fraction of its rivals’ pricing. Family fave fish fingers, waffles (WAFFLES!) and all too elusive hash browns were a pleasant surprise. (Quite the refined palate I possess.) Bypassing some of the curious frost-begot mince pellets and ‘signature’ tikka lasagne to the wine selection and I’m pleasantly surprised. Squint and I’m in a boutique wine bar with a considered edit of vino. Seriously. Sorta.
Fresh, bright and shiny despite my best efforts there was little I could fault with this aspiring, revamped addition to the local high street. I walked away with a few necessary staples costing me the change in my purse. Would I go back? Wellllll…. Oh fine. Sure I would, not forgetting my hemp woven shoppers, naturally. Baby steps.
You can take the girl out of Waitrose.
I know, I know, you thought this about Trump, another grief-stricken moan about the demise of ”Merca’. Yawn. Silly rabbit, you got a better way to get clicks? And really, who cares if I move to Iceland?? Same goes for you, Miley.
* note these are not real brands. It’s irony.
