It’s 7.54 a.m. and we are waiting for the doors of the Intermarché St Remy de Provence to open. A vast sense of excitement is building within our group that spans the ages of nine months to 68 years. My mother wants espadrilles, my husband wants wine, my brother-in-law wants cheese, the children want toys, et moi? Just the experience, the delicious joy of the French supermarché. And possibly some soap.
I was even asked to show the bottom of my baby’s buggy to the cashier to check that we hadn’t stolen anything
As the hour draws closer, we keep saying how civilised it all is: the plane trees that border the building, the sight of the Intermarché staff in their immaculate uniforms, the quiet punter smoking his morning fag before plunging in for his tinned cassoulet and Morbier. It’s just so French, we keep tooting loudly. Beside us, I see a local couple roll their eyes and look away; how bored they must be of the filthy English exclaiming over their supermarkets and loading up on cheap fizz.
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