There is a secret sport being played in supermarkets across Britain every day, and hardly anyone talks about it. It requires no special equipment, no training, and no sign-up fee. It is, of course, the fine art of judging other people’s shopping trolleys.
We all do it. A furtive glance while pretending to weigh up different soups, a subtle side-eye in the dairy aisle. One look at a stranger’s trolley, and your mind spins up an elaborate character study worthy of a Netflix mini-series. Whether we admit it or not, we’re all armchair psychologists when it comes to other people’s groceries.
The Ancient Art of Trolley Judgement
Perhaps it’s something buried deep in our evolutionary wiring—in ancient times, sizing up your neighbour’s harvest was probably crucial for survival. Today, instead of admiring a fine collection of root vegetables, we’re glancing at who’s panic-buying Monster Munch and Chardonnay. It’s not just nosiness; it’s anthropology.
The supermarket, after all, is a mirror to the soul. You can tell more about a person from a glance into their trolley than you ever could from their social media. A basket overflowing with kale and quinoa suggests someone battling heroically against midweek fatigue. A trolley laden with 40 frozen pizzas? Someone either planning a children’s party—or embracing glorious, greasy surrender.
The Trolley Archetypes We All Recognise
Among the supermarket aisles, familiar characters emerge. There’s the Overachiever, whose trolley is a rainbow of organic produce, oat milk, and ingredients you’ve only seen on MasterChef. You spot them and immediately feel judged by your own shameful pile of garlic bread and novelty biscuits.
Then there’s the Chaos Merchant, whose trolley is a glorious jumble of cat litter, four grapefruits, a novelty fondue set, and a litre of bubble bath. Are they hosting a wildly unpredictable party? Are they running away to start a new life? We’ll never know, but we’ll cheer them on regardless.
The End-of-the-World Prepper is harder to miss. Their trolley is a fortress of tinned beans, bottled water, and enough toilet roll to insulate a small cottage. They know something we don’t, and frankly, they look smug about it.
And who could forget the Bare Minimum Minimalist? Their haul is one banana, a ready meal, and a bottle of wine. It’s a small, tragic novella told through groceries—a story of giving up, and yet somehow, carrying on.
Trolley Shame: When You Get Caught
As much as we delight in our silent observations, the horror comes when the tables turn. You know the feeling—that cold spike of panic when you realise someone has clocked your own trolley. Maybe it’s brimming with enough crisps and ice cream to suggest an upcoming emotional breakdown, or maybe you’ve bulk-bought loo roll and chocolate spread like an unsupervised child.
The instinct to explain yourself is almost overwhelming. “It’s for a party!” you want to cry out, as if anyone was actually accusing you. “I’m not eating this alone, honest!”
In those moments, we become masters of performance art. We might toss a rogue bag of spinach on top of our pile of frozen pizza, as if to say, “Look at me, a balanced, respectable adult.” We fiddle with labels on cereal boxes, pretending we care deeply about fibre content. Anything to distract from the fact that deep down, we’re just a sentient ball of snack cravings and poor planning.
Conclusion: We Are All Trolley Goblins at Heart
At the end of the day, judging supermarket trolleys is petty, pointless, and somehow deeply nourishing. It’s one of those small, unspoken joys—a shared human experience that links us together, whether we’re loading up on kale or KitKats.
Our trolleys are messy, contradictory little portraits of who we are: our hopes, our weaknesses, our plans for a “healthy Monday” sabotaged by a rogue cheesecake offer. So next time you’re in Tesco, Asda or Sainsbury’s, stealing a glance into a stranger’s trolley, know this: someone, somewhere, is glancing into yours too. And that’s perfectly alright.
Besides, if you can’t judge a stranger’s dubious wine and lasagne choices in the frozen aisle, are you even living?
Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.
Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.
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