Trolley Rage - A Confession...

...Losing one's rag in a supermarket is not, on the whole, a good thing; best avoided really if at all possible. Yesterday, though, one came mighty close to battering some fellow to the ground with the formidable weapon that is one's shopping trolley. Had indeed, on the spot, thought it the only way forward, as it were, to run him down with bloody intent. Well, actually, no. The intent was to prevent, as necessary, the shedding of any blood. Let me explain.

It all went like this. There we were approaching the front portal of the place (Dante's words on Hell's gateway springing of course to mind), equipped as per with the aforementioned trolley, when one suddenly became aware of a mighty fracas brewing.

A youngish fellow complete with bulging rucksack was in the process of being accosted by a lady store detective who, it would seem, had detected contraband being smuggled out of the place. The loud ringing of the shop's alarm was a useful contextual clue of course.

The fellow, though, was having none of it. The polite request that he should step back inside for a swift frisk-down fell entirely on deaf ears. That one clearly gathered from the loud, roaring, ranting swearing with which he let it be known how he felt about the whole situation. Not the tone of injured innocence, but one of snarling defiance.

The next step was not, in those particular circs., the wisest choice. Joining the lady store detective came a large gentleman of the place who clearly - and in my view wrongly - felt that if words could not effect the required response, then actions would. A mighty shove in the chest did indeed propel the fellow some feet closer to the door, but it was what also resulted that transformed an unpleasant scene for all into something quite other.

Dropping the rucksack, the fellow just shoved made a sudden reach into a coat pocket. In search of a comb to smooth his ruffled hair? Looking for the receipt to prove his innocence? Either of course might have been possible, but though one has led, by and large, a pretty sheltered life, when a man is looking to pull out a knife for fell purposes one just knows that to be so. (The sudden look of terror on the faces of the two most likely to be on the receiving end of any murderous attack, was sufficient to show that my take on the way things could be heading was not mine alone.)

Now one is not a brave soldier, one does not yearn to rush into any battle at any time, but at an instant came the realisation that, should this putative knife make its much unwanted appearance, then a sudden armoured flank attack with trolley was probably the only way to put an end to the matter before it had time properly to begin.

Mercifully, we were all spared by the arrival of reinforcements in the shapes of five other stonkingly large gentlemen from within the store to confront the man and his possible weaponry. Some rapid recalculation of the odds and the fellow promptly gave in. Even to the extent of actually putting his hands up high above his head, which did indeed make me feel he was not an entire novice at these things. A little melodramatic perhaps, but a welcome sight for all.

A relief too to be spared the inevitable headlines in next week's St. Boniface Chronicle: "Revving Rector Rattles Robber" or somesuch. (H tells me I must cease at once my Dirty Harry impressions. I think I do a rather good rendition of "So do you feel lucky punk?" Must try and drop that into Sunday's homily. Or perhaps better not.)