In defence of Waitrose

I recently had a call with my accountant, a miniskirt-wearing, swashbuckling bon vivant and wine connoisseur. To soothe myself before we rang off – tax is always depressing – I brought up Waitrose, saying by way of apology for my erratic finances that most of my money went in the supermarket, a large branch of which is between my nearest Tube station and my flat. She hemmed knowingly down the phone. We both agreed it was a good use of funds. Life’s short – or might be. If one can, surely one ought to eat what one wants? And if that means a pair of smoked salmon, pea and lovage terrines or five types of mackerel pate on a Monday, or a medley of pre-chopped mango and strawberry with own-brand coconut and lime ice cream, then so be it.

There is much general discourse about Waitrose in the United Kingdom. One barb that all Waitrose shoppers will be familiar with is that it is for out-of-touch snobs only, Marie Antoinette figures who think nothing of paying over the odds for their tatsoi, baby kale and Burford Browns when the country is heading for penury. In