grocery shopping – untypicable.

Why We All Secretly Judge Other People’s Shopping Trolleys

Kerry Freeman — Wed, 09 Apr 2025 10:00:00 +0000

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?

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Kerry Freeman

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 as an occasional contributor, 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.

I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won’t Make Two Trips

Kerry Freeman — Mon, 10 Mar 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There are many defining traits of human nature—love, ambition, the ability to queue with silent resentment—but none are quite as universal as our stubborn refusal to make two trips when carrying things. Whether it’s shopping bags, laundry baskets, or an entire Chinese takeaway order, we will strain, struggle, and risk permanent nerve damage just to avoid walking an extra ten feet.

It’s a mystery why we do this to ourselves. Is it laziness? Pride? A deep-seated need to prove we’re physically superior to our own past selves? Whatever the reason, the one-trip mentality is a battle we all fight—and usually lose.

The war against a second trip is fought in driveways, car parks, and stairwells all over the country. It’s a tale as old as time—person against gravity, willpower against common sense, pride against the inevitable snapping of a plastic carrier bag handle. Yet, no matter how many times we fail, no matter how many jars of pasta sauce shatter upon impact with the floor, we never learn.

The Psychology of the One-Trip Mentality

Why Do We Do This to Ourselves?

Let’s be honest: we could make two trips. Nothing is stopping us. But somehow, the idea of willingly going back for a second load feels like defeat. It’s as if our ancestors, who carried entire logs across prehistoric landscapes, would look down upon us for daring to make an extra journey to the car boot.

Then there’s the time-saving illusion. We convince ourselves that carrying all the bags at once will somehow shave minutes off our day. In reality, we spend an extra ten minutes contorting ourselves through doorways like a deranged octopus, hissing in pain as plastic bag handles cut deep into our fingers.

There’s also an element of competition—can I beat my personal best? If last week you managed eight bags in one go, this week you must push for ten. The challenge is relentless, the stakes higher with each passing attempt.

And then there’s social pressure. If anyone’s watching, there’s absolutely no way you’re making two trips. You will pick up all six bags, the multipack of toilet rolls, and the 24-pack of bottled water in one go, even if it means waddling to your front door like an overburdened pack mule.

The Science of the Struggle

The Bag Distribution Dilemma

A seasoned one-trip warrior knows that successful execution is all about strategy. Bags must be evenly distributed across the arms like an overworked supermarket checkout assistant. The heaviest bag? That goes in the dominant hand. Eggs? Balance them precariously on top of the bread and pray for the best.

But the real challenge comes when attempting to unlock the front door. You’ve made it to the final boss battle: extracting your keys while holding what amounts to your body weight in groceries. It’s an act of physical contortion, resembling an interpretative dance, all while the circulation is rapidly leaving your hands.

The Risk-Reward Ratio

Carrying everything in one go comes with its own set of high-stakes consequences.

Scenario 1: The Triumphant Victory

Everything makes it inside in one glorious feat of determination. You close the door behind you, take a deep breath, and revel in your own efficiency. Sure, your arms are temporarily useless and you may never regain feeling in your fingers, but the mission was a success.

Scenario 2: The Absolute Disaster

You got cocky. You pushed the limits. Just as you reach your front door, a handle snaps, a takeaway container tips sideways, and suddenly your precious prawn crackers are confetti for the local pigeons. You briefly consider crying.

Scenario 3: The Near Miss

You’ve made it. You fumble for your keys. Just as you start to celebrate, a single rogue tin rolls out of the bag, making a break for it down the driveway. You must now decide: drop everything and chase it or pretend it was never yours to begin with.

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

After every catastrophic failure, we promise ourselves that next time will be different.

“I’ll be more careful.” (You won’t.)
“I’ll do two trips next time.” (You absolutely won’t.)
“I’ll use one of those trendy granny trolleys.” (You won’t, but good luck convincing yourself.)

And yet, time and time again, we find ourselves standing at the car, calculating bag placement like we’re strategising a military operation. The cycle continues, fuelled by sheer stubbornness and the ever-looming threat of making an unnecessary second journey.

The One-Trip Curse

We all know deep down that making two trips is the sensible choice. But we’re British. Sensible choices aren’t really our thing. Whether it’s refusing to carry an umbrella despite torrential rain or saying “sorry” when someone else bumps into us, we are creatures of bizarre yet unshakable habits.

And so, the one-trip challenge remains. We will struggle. We will drop things. We will get stuck in doorways. But above all, we will persist—because no matter what, we will never make two trips.

And if we do, well, we just won’t talk about it.