Will to live sapped? Check!

There are two words that strike fear into the all-but-empty chest cavity of the half-hearted hack: advertising feature. Gahh! Nooooo! (Whimpering noises, rocking and drooling reflex engaged.)

Oh, it's OK now. I've had a large measure of Appleton Estate for my nerves and it's all fine. Really. Sunshine, lollypops...

Recently, I did a stint on ad features for my sins (which are obviously many and varied and will one day see me sunk in a pit of sulphur, vomit and Boney M Christmas albums).

For the (happily) unitiated, ad features are those things you never read in newspapers and magazines. They are also known as ad supplements, but they differ in a way that I have yet to grasp fully from the true advertorial. Depending on where they appear, ad features are usually given to people who buy ads. Simple, yeah? The people who buy the ads often just write the words and send them in. He/she of the shattered spirit (on this occasion, me) takes said words and makes them into something grammatically correct and, hopefully, eye-catching enough for you to be arsed reading it. There is always a contact number and possibly an address at the end of an ad feature. It sounds just like an advertorial, doesn't it? Nothing of the sort, apparently. Ad features involve Editorial Independence. You'd think that EI would mean that if it were crap, it wouldn't get a run, right? Pffft. As far as I can ascertain, it actually means that if there's no room, or the picture is bollocks - or worse still, there's no picture - then it doesn't get a run. Welcome to the sad and tragic world of ad features.

I still don't understand why they need a journalist for this job. Perhaps it's to make the advertisers feel more important. Whatever the reason, it does nothing for the morale of the poor sods who have to write the stuff. I don't know how journos do this day in, day out and remain sane. One week in, I found myself dangerously close to an alcoholic coma. "But why did you agree to do this?" I hear you cry. Well, I didn't have anything else to do at the time and it kept me in gas bills. And I'm just a gal who cain't say no, pity upon me.

I think my lowest moment came when I had to write (for "write" read "retype") the words, "Are you worried about unwanted hair this summer?" No matter how low the hack goes after this, even if she ends up being a spin doctor for a petrochemical company, being forced to tell people why fairy penguins are happier covered in deisel sludge, nothing will ever be as bad as that moment.

Unwanted. Hair.

I had to think about kittens and Hugh Laurie and Haigh's peppermint truffle bars to keep that sentence from sapping all of my will to live. Harry Potter fans, you know that moment in the movie version of The Prisoner of Azkaban when the unpleasantness of Dementors flies in and starts sucking Harry and Sirius's faces off? Yup, you got it.

Never. A-fucking-gain.

Aisle go mad!

If they'd had supermarkets in 13th century Italy, I feel sure Dante would have used one as a model for one of the lower Circles of Hell. On my pet hate list, supermarket visits rank below John Howard, above pairing socks and roughly equal with de-turding the kitty litter tray.

I don't really mind a hit and run on the local, where you park out the front, dash in, buy chocolate and a magazine and leave three minutes later via the 10 items or less queue. It's the full scale, we're-out-of-everything-and-I-have-to-make-a-goddamned-list shopping trip that I really hate.

It has to be done, though. You just can't buy loo paper or Omo at the Central Market. And if I run out of the type of canned kitty fodder Mr Furpants likes, he turns our lives into a mewing, whining, ankle-clawing hell. So I go to the supermarket.

I interviewed a spritualist once who told me that one of the reasons people feel so grouchy and out of sorts in supermarkets is that you have to walk through the auras of so many other people. You know that nasty shudder you get sometimes when you pass someone? You've just walked through their aura and it was poo-brown. I don't belive in auras (though if I did, mine would obviously be gold with spangles, the shade reserved for crabby bitches). She did have a point: it's the other shoppers that make supermarkets truly nasty. I can cope better if there's hardly anyone there, but a packed Coles makes me want to peel off my own skin.

So, to make a supermarket visit complete, you need at least one of several types of shopper:

The Demon Child, who has a borderline personality disorder, is mainlining red food colouring and has the lungs of Luciano Pavarotti. This child will not be happy.

The Frazzled Parent of Demon Child, who appears not to notice the fact that their offspring's screeches have shattered jars of mayonnaise in aisle five. Invaribaly, the Frazzled Parent will suddenly lose his or her wick with a Godzilla-worthy roar while you have your back turned, scaring six months' growth out of you. For maximum points, this will happen when you are comparing the sugar content on different brands of cranberry juice. While wearing something white.

The Morbidly Obese Aisle Clogger should preferably riding a Gopher. He may appear to be slow-moving, but somehow he is still everywhere you turn, sitting in the middle of the aisle comparing brands of lard. If this person is next to you in the check-out queue or at the deli counter, he will fart and the result will be eyewatering. He will also be cunning enough to shift the blame by giving you a disgusted look.

The Tightarse is so enamoured of saving 20 cents on their total bill that they have to share the secret of their success and will offer you advice on cheaper versions of things you have in your trolley. "Those Savings meat pies are much cheaper, you know. They're all pies! Don't you want to save money?" Sure, but not if it means I have to eat a minced mouse and cockcroach crap pie. I prefer steak and mushroom.

The Dairy Cabinet Reunion. (Admittedly this is a group, but I'll count it as one, large, annoying shopper.) Supermarkets are for buying things and getting the hell out. They are not for chatting. Meet for a beer later if you like, or even have dinner, but for Ford's sake move your arses from in front of the damned milk!

The Squeezer, as the name implies, squeezes the bread, fondles the fruit and handles the pick'n'mix lollies. Closely related is The Sneezer, who coughs or sneezes on something you were thinking about buying. He or she may also sneeze wetly into a hand and then put it back on the trolley handle, causing you to examine your own trolley handle for bogies.

The Lost Boy is more tragic than annoying. It's clear that his partner has sent him out to buy a number of items which may or may not include tampons. He will be looking traumatised and talking urgenly into his mobile phone, saying things like, "Super or regular?" or "But there are fourteen types of butter! Which one do you want?" I stopped taking The Bloke shopping because he was prone to climbing onto the trolley and scooting down aisles. When people were looking.

There are probably others, but these seem to be the ones that piss me off on a regular basis. Anyway, now I've set the scene, I'll tell you about this morning's supermarket run. I was resigned to it, psyched up, but I never imaged the horror that was waiting for me: a check-out log jam of Biblical proportions.

What could have happened? Was everyone stocking up to ride out a nuclear winter? It's Christmas and I forgot? Had the government announced supermarkets were going to be abolished? No. It was far more banal: football. One of the hometown teams was playing in the national semi-finals and every bastard was getting the shopping done early to leave time to watch the game, drink beer and yell drunkely.

I have no use for Aussie rules at the best of times, apart from liking to ogle Matthew Primus' chest and arm muscles occasionally. (I'm only human, after all.) And no, I neither know nor care who won. But thanks for getting into the finals, boys. You really put the roasted vomit sprinkles on my crapcream sundae.

Frock horror

Today I became trapped in a dress and had to be cut out. With scissors.

I was wandering through Target (that’s pronounced Tarjaaay, dahling) when I saw this dinky summer frock. It was blue and white floral with no sleeves, a knee-length A-line skirt and a tricky little tie belt. In short, it was just as cute as a button. "Hmm," I thought craftily. "That doesn’t look like a cheap frock." So off I flitted to the fitting room.

There was no problem getting the dress on. The zip went up nicely. Once on, however, it did look rather like a cheap frock because it gaped unattractively around the neckline. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," I thought, trying to undo the zip. It jammed halfway. "Spiteful cheap frock!" I thought, yanking at the zip for a good minute before admitting that help was needed.

Mum was waiting outside, so I said, “Psst! Mum! I’m stuck!” She dragged at the zip for a while, but still no cigar. I tried to yank the dress over my head, but that wasn’t working either (boobs can be such a problem). Admitting defeat, I went to the fitting room lady and told her I had a zip problem. She came over and helpfully did it up for me.

“Nooo,” I whined. “It won’t go down. I’m trapped!” “In a Target frock!” I added in a silent wail. Not quite believing that anyone could be dumb enough to get stuck in a dress, she also dragged at the zip for a while. Ba-bow. She fetched another lassy who took her turn struggling with it. Meanwhile, I was wishing I’d shaved my underarms and was feeling like that jar of olives that everyone passes around at a party but no-one can open.

The two women went off to consult the manager about what to do with a customer stuck in a frock and one returned with a pair of scissors to “unpick” the zip. Predictably, this didn’t work, since scissors tend to be more suited to cutting. There was yet more consultation. Finally the first woman returned and said, “We’re just going to have to cut you out.” So she did.

Now let’s never speak of this regrettable incident again.