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Moreen Simpson: I feared Asda delivery hitch would brew trouble for my pot roast

My delivery guyo went above and beyond after a technical hitch.
My delivery guyo went above and beyond after a technical hitch.

It is exactly two years since I went through my shopping revolution.

Actually, I’d a minor one a pucklie years before when, ever-more nervous about driving, I happily sold the car. But how to do the weekly shop?

Very conveniently, about that time, Tesco built their Woodend store. With the aid of my posh, Scandanavian, four-wheel shopping trolley – which can be effortlessly pushed rather than exhaustingly dragged and has the capacity of a small car boot – I got all my messages while keeping fit on the 40-minute round trek.

However, when Covid struck in March 2020, I didnae funcy queueing for entry among a heap of possibly infected bods.

Albeit a bittie feart, I went online; not Tesco because then their delivery spaces were as scarce as hens’ teeth, while Asda had paid-for “recurring slots” (still maks me titter.) Suits me, sir. Same day, same hour every week. Sooo decadent lyin’ in yer scratcher pickin’ fine food.

Typhoo in a bag like a sack of compost

Yet still I make major boobs, usually thanks to my ignorance ower sizes. A jumbo tank of hairspray by mistake for a wee travel effort. Half a hundredweight of baking tatties (ie five four-packs) instead of just five singles. Enough Typhoo to last until (and probably supply) my funeral tea, in a bag like a sack of compost.

Delivery gadgies are pretty helpful, but none like the extraordinary Green Knight who came to my aid last week, when Asda and I got in a right pickle.

Tuesday, started preparing my pot-roast beef in beer for the family. Only waiting for the ale from my delivery at the back of noon. As I pootered, I noticed an email from earlier. Oh no, Mo. Asda apologising because something had gone kaput with their system yesterday. Any items shoppers had added to, or subtracted from, our lists wouldn’t show.

Mummy, daddy fit a fash. Fit wid I get that I didnae want, and vice versa? About to check my account when the doorbell rang and, behold, my vision in green tabard, complete with trays that looked suspiciously emptier than usual.

Would glitch brew up trouble for my recipe?

He’d just heard about the glitch as well so slowed down the unloading as I tried to work out what was missing. At the end, nothing I couldnae live without. Then it hit me. I scraiked: “Oh no. The beer for my pot roast!” That’s when I went into some feel-gype “Fit-‘ill-I-dee?” mode, totally over-reacting to the very uncritical situation.

As he was gone a whilie, didn’t this old cynic even begin to suspect he’d done a runner from a diva?

My guyo was sympathetic as I explained I needed beer – not just any beer, but dark ale – for the recipe I was in the middle of. Readers, I kid you not, guess fit he did? He bowled off in his vannie to buy me some, saying it was the company’s mistake and he should right it. Spik aboot gobsmacked at such chivalry.

As he was gone a whilie, didn’t this old cynic even begin to suspect he’d done a runner from a diva? However, transpired he’d no luck at my corner shoppie so went on to nearby Lidl. Above and beyond or fit? I could have kissed him, but settled for a £3 tip. (Was that enough?) Then off he sped. Asda, ye’ve got a topper there.


Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of The Press & Journal and started her journalism career in 1970

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