My Own Experience With Chariots

My infatuation with La Coquette continues, as I spend my days devouring her blog. This entry, End of the Plastic Bag Era, reminded me of what happened with Richard, my French ex-boyfriend.

We lived in a gorgeous converted warehouse in Pyrmont, and our nearest shopping centre was a 3 minute drive - or 15 minute walk - away. He detested laziness, so the 15 minute walk was the only option. Back then a weekly shop was de rigeur, so we'd easily have 8-12 bags...heavy bags...to share between us. At first he'd put everything bar two bags for me in a backpack and off we'd tromp home (me, unhappily. I always hated this and figured hey, he's cute, he's French, he knows what we're doing. Actually I hated him thinking I was lazy, which he always made me feel). Then one day he was struck with an epiphany and decided to buy a wheeled shopping cart (if only I knew it was the done thing in France, and had the cute name of chariot, the francofille in me would have justified it). Similar to this one, but red tartan, like all the other nanas. I was 19, he was 32.

It was the same kind of embarassment as when your mum stops too close to the school gates to pick you up. I was hoping people would focus on his tan and perfect smile and not the nana convenience.