You wake up with purpose. You are armed with ideology, a half-remembered shopping list, and two children under seven who have already consumed more jam on toast than is strictly compatible with rational thought. Today’s battlefield? The supermarket. Your mission? Groceries. Your downfall? Everything else.

Commodities and Trolley Wacky Races

The trolley is your first mistake. You choose the one with the wobbly wheel because, like late-stage capitalism, they all have structural issues that no one wants to fix. Your youngest claims the seat like a CEO in a swivel chair. Your eldest decides they’re the human equivalent of a Tesco Clubcard and clings to the side with terrifying velocity.

As you push forward into the harsh fluorescence, you realise you’re not in a shop. You’re in a temple of mass-produced distraction. And you are woefully underprepared.

False Consciousness in the Cereal Aisle

The cereal aisle is the frontline of the ideological struggle.

“Can we get the unicorn cornflakes?”
You glance at the price. £4.25.
“They’re healthy,” your child says, pointing to a dubious claim about vitamin D and dreams on the front of the box.

You try to explain commodity fetishism. They counter with a sticker chart. You lose. Again.

It’s not just cereal. It’s culture, it’s advertising, it’s 14 grams of sugar per bowl and a moral crisis in a box. You quietly mourn a world where porridge still held meaning.

Alienation from Labour (and Lasagne)

You recall something about meal planning. You’ve watched three YouTube videos on “batch cooking like a boss.” But now you’re staring at the reduced section, emotionally broken, contemplating whether a dented tin of chickpeas counts as dinner.

Your list has disintegrated into chaos. Items acquired so far include:

• One novelty banana slicer
• Two Peppa Pig yoghurts
• A single mango (nobody knows why)
• Your child’s new best friend, a themed reusable bag with eyes

You’ve been in here for 47 minutes. You’ve answered the question “Can we get this?” 84 times. You are alienated not only from your labour, but from space, time, and coherent identity.

Surplus Value, or: “Daddy, Can We Get This?”

There’s a moment—brief, shining—where you find the actual item you came in for. Pasta. Penne, the backbone of a thousand rushed dinners.

But before you can reach it, you’re distracted by a neon-labelled, limited-edition, vegan-friendly snack that promises joy, energy, and a carbon-neutral aftertaste.

Your child insists it will “make them do better at spelling.” The surplus value has never been so shiny.

The Class Struggle in the Chiller Section

The chilled aisle is a socio-economic novella in itself.

To your left: the branded cheese aisle, £3.50 for cheddar encased in 87 layers of plastic and capitalist guilt.
To your right: the budget range, whose packaging is less “minimalist chic” and more “prison rations.”

You reach for the mid-range. A compromise. A betrayal.

Your child announces they no longer like cheese.
They liked cheese this morning.
They were singing songs about cheese in the car.
You feel your sanity slipping, one Babybel at a time.

The Class Struggle at the Till

You opt for the self-checkout because you once believed in efficiency. This was a mistake.
The scanner won’t scan.
The bagging area is “unexpectedly full.”
Your child is attempting to weigh their own head on the scales.
An alarm goes off.
A staff member arrives. She has the look of a woman who has personally survived ten economic downturns and a Black Friday in Croydon.

You’re forced to perform the dance of barcode validation, scan rescanning, and muttering apologies while trying to stop a toddler licking the security barrier.

Behind you, a man in a fleece sighs dramatically. In front of you, a woman is arguing about nectar points she believes were “emotionally promised” to her by the app. No one is free.

Sticker Shock (Literally)

At the end, the cashier gives your child a sticker for “being brave.”
You get a receipt, a headache, and an automated offer of 10p off something you don’t need.
The bill? £78.42.
The result? You still forgot the pasta.

You exit into daylight, blinking, blinking, wondering what it was all for. The world feels vaguely dystopian, but that might just be the £5.25 oat milk.

And somewhere, from the great beyond, you hear a faint laugh… deep, wheezy, theoretical.

“History repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce.”
(Marx, 1852)

He’d clearly never tried shopping with children.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

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