Supermarkets are more than just places to buy food. For many, they’re an identity, a statement, a microcosm of life’s choices. Or, quite possibly, just the nearest building with a functioning till and a shelf of biscuits. Yet somehow, we’ve attached personality traits to the very act of shopping. “Oh, you shop at Waitrose? You must be a fan of velouté.” “Asda, you say? Bet you love a rollback deal.” But what does your supermarket really say about you? Perhaps everything. Perhaps nothing. Let’s wander the aisles of assumption, trolley in hand, and find out.
First, we have Tesco, the dependable everyman of supermarkets. If Tesco were a person, it would be your slightly dull but always-there friend who brings plain crisps to every party but never lets you down. Shopping here suggests you value stability and enjoy the comforting beep of a Clubcard at the till. You might even own a cupboard full of loyalty vouchers that you promise to use one day. Then again, perhaps Tesco is simply closest to your house, and convenience trumps loyalty. Either way, you’ll be walking out with a chicken Caesar wrap and a faint feeling of accomplishment.
Sainsbury’s, on the other hand, is where middle-class dreams go to die beneath the weight of an overpriced quiche. It’s aspirational without being intimidating, the sort of place where everything is ever-so-slightly more expensive than it should be, but the lighting makes you feel better about it. If you shop at Sainsbury’s, you probably use words like “curate” when talking about dinner and have a weakness for their Taste the Difference range. Or maybe it’s just on your way home from work, and you’re grabbing a sandwich while telling yourself it’s “a treat.” The quiche was an accident.
Then there’s Aldi, the wild west of supermarkets. Stepping into Aldi is like embarking on a treasure hunt where the prize could be a bag of carrots or a paddleboard—there’s no telling what you’ll find in the middle aisle. Shopping here means you’re adventurous, thrifty, and mildly chaotic. You’ve accepted the fact that you’ll leave with at least one item you didn’t need but couldn’t resist. Yet, maybe it’s simply the nearest shop to your house, and you’ve learned to embrace the weirdness. The kayak in your shed? Totally practical.
For those with loftier ambitions, there’s Waitrose. The gleaming beacon of poshness, where the cucumbers are straighter, the bread is artisanal, and the air itself smells of smugness. If you shop at Waitrose, you might think of yourself as refined, a person who enjoys saying “shallots” instead of “onions.” You might even own a reusable Waitrose bag, which you proudly display at other supermarkets. But let’s not kid ourselves—sometimes you’re just there because it’s on the way home, and you’ve convinced yourself that the slightly overpriced bread is “worth it.” Spoiler: it probably isn’t.
Asda, by contrast, is the supermarket of the people. Affordable, bustling, and perpetually chaotic, it’s where practicality reigns supreme. If you shop at Asda, you likely enjoy a bargain and have perfected the art of dodging rogue trolleys. You know a good deal when you see one and leave with a trolley full of items that cost less than one posh sandwich at Waitrose. Unless, of course, you’re just there for the cheap petrol and thought you’d grab some frozen chips while you were at it.
Co-op sits in a category of its own. It’s less a supermarket and more a lifeline, there for you in moments of desperation. If you shop at Co-op, it might mean you value community and sustainability—or that it’s 8:55 PM, you’ve just realised there’s no milk at home, and it’s the only place still open. You tell yourself the higher prices are worth it because you’re supporting local causes, but deep down, you’re just relieved they stock decent wine.
Meanwhile, Morrisons is quietly doing its thing, the unsung hero of the supermarket world. It’s homely, welcoming, and unpretentious. If you shop here, you probably know the joy of a good pie and aren’t afraid to linger at the fish counter. You might even pop into the café for a tea and a scone because why not? Or maybe it’s just close to your commute, and you’ve never actually eaten a pie in your life.
Finally, there’s M&S Food Hall, the supermarket equivalent of whispering “treat yourself” into your own ear. Shopping here suggests you have excellent taste and a soft spot for Percy Pigs. Everything feels a little more special in M&S, even if it’s just a sandwich. You might tell yourself you’re only buying “the essentials,” but we all know you’ve got a hand-rolled sushi platter tucked away in your basket. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the closest shop to the office, and you’re quietly mourning the tenner you just spent on lunch.
In the end, your supermarket choice might reveal something about you—or it might not. Perhaps you’re a loyal Waitrose shopper with a hidden love for Aldi’s mystery aisle. Maybe you hop between Co-op and Tesco based purely on proximity. Or perhaps, like most people, you’re just hungry and need a loaf of bread before you keel over.
So, the next time someone raises an eyebrow at your choice of supermarket, remember this: it’s not where you shop that defines you—it’s what’s in your trolley. And if that includes a Percy Pig or a kayak, all the better.
Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.
With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.
Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.
A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.
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