May you be the sort of person who forgets to shop online until your cupboards are bare.
May you find yourself here, frequently, despairingly, with sad sense of the justness of fate.
May you be forced to wrestle your youngest and sweet-talk your eldest into the trolley every time, and those times many.
May they squabble and shriek the whole way round.
May your distraction be such that you buy the half-fat sausages.
May your trolley always be full when your eldest announces the need to relieve his waters.
May you pack and pay like a woman gone mad.
May the disabled toilet always be occupied and disgusting.
May you spend a full fifteen minutes in deathly fear that your offspring will pee on your groceries.
As the door opens and the occupant waltzes out, may your boy turn to you and say, in tones of impeccable surprise,
‘oh, do you need the toilet Mama? I don’t’.