Elizabeth Joyce: It's time to go independent and cut the big boys
It was the stuff of rainy rush-hour dreams. The kind of thing you fantasise about while slumped at your desk on Monday morning.
And yet, at the end of this most glorious of days off, what did I feel?
Guilt.
Guilt that for my entire life I've been a slave to the supermarket; a lackey to the likes of Starbucks, McDonalds and M&S; a tiny cog in the great chugging machine of retail parks, self-service tills and overpriced parking spaces.
Shopping for my generation has never been an artform: it's a clumsy, mindless exercise that sees us packed into supermarkets like stressed sardines.
It's all very wam, bam, thank you mam. Only without the 'thank you mam'.
And the sad thing is, it never really occurred to me until I spent that magnificent morning meandering around Tettenhall.
Now, it doesn't have to be Tettenhall, you can insert your own location here, be it Ludlow, Lichfield or Leominster. The only rule is that it has to be different to the identikit high street.
My day off started with me actually walking into the village centre. Walking! As in, not driving a car. I didn't even realise we could still do that in this day and age.
Anyways, I wandered first into Billie's on the Green greengrocers, where the fruit and veg was plump and vibrant not the insipid supermarket shade of 'blah' I'm so used to. Then it was off to Robinsons butchers and deli, where I could buy honey from Wolverhampton, beef from Bridgnorth and sausages that actually looked like, well, sausages. Other shops and salons followed before the whole thing was topped off with a steaming cup of coffee and dreamy slice of chocolate cake at Zest Coffee House.
By the end of it, I was calm, happy and brimming with new ideas for breakfasts, brunches and dinners.
By the end of my usual supermarket shop I'm cantankerous, humourless and eating the same old tea of Old El Paso fajitas.
Sad, isn't it? And not just the fajitas.
I actually began the BDOE (Best Day Off Ever) down the road in Chapel Ash at High Town Art Shop, where the friendly chap behind the counter gave me expert advice and a pair of portrait tacks on the house.
Imagine getting anything for free in Asda or Sainsbury's.
Not. A. Chance.
You have to offer up a quid before they'll even give you a trolley. Skinflints.
And so a belated New Year resolution has been formed. I hereby vow to make the most of my local independent shops before they are lost forever in the Tesco tsunami or Aldi avalanche.
I'm determined to wean myself off a lifetime habit of brand names, trolley dashing and car parks that resemble a scene from Where's Wally.
What have I got to lose? Lasagnes filled with horsemeat? Seventy pence off my next shop?
Stuff that.
I'm checking out.
One last thing
Celebrity Big Brother's back. And this time it's filth.
The contestants this year have got one thing, and one thing only, on their tiny minds – and it ain't chatting to Big Bro in the diary room.
Lee and Casey rolling round in bed with each other, Jasmine and Luisa snogging in the bathtub, the general sexpest that is Dappy: it's all far too much.
I don't know about you, but it's making me feel queasy. I feel like I should disinfect my TV screen each time it's been on.
What's that? I should turn it off? Don't be ridiculous, it's ruddy good telly.
