Less customer service please

I am going on the first of two business trips in the space of a week, and I am stressed. All full time working Mums know how close to the edge they sail in their multitasking worlds. When rhythm is established, all is calm. You know exactly at what point you will put the washing on in between getting back from a full day of work and a hellish commute, starting a lamb tagine because you are not one of those Ready Meal copouts, checking homework, checking for headlice, and finding something to wear for tomorrow before you go to bed, because you know damn well that if you leave it till the next morning, you will try on 34 outfits in increasing frustration before pulling out what you think will do and then finding when you slump back in your garish Northern line seat that your jacket is missing a button, your skirt zip is at half mast, and you are wearing fishnet tights. For a job interview. So it's all a matter of balance, and it takes only one thing, for the whole thing to keel over into the abyss. Drivers of the apocalypse include, child illness, a tube strike, the school closing because it snowed for five minutes, the washing machine breaking down, or, in my case, one too many business trips. This one also rips out half of my weekend - I fly on a Sunday morning, arrive Sunday evening, and have to pretend like I am not in such urgent need of bed that if I didn't purse my lips together during the meetings I have gone straight to I will flop over into my coffee and dribble on the table, all because I have gone back one too many time zones and no my body cannot just adjust - it couldn't when I was in my teens and it sure as hell can't now. But my immediate problem is, that I have 24 hours instead of 48 to perform close to a million chores, plus pack AND calm down sufficiently not to make everyone else in my daily life suffer. I manage this pretty well with my partner, kids, the postman and my neighbours. But I crack at the supermarket checkout of the local high end shop I often frequent simply because it shares a car park with my gym, and time is of the essence. I would so rather shoot up the road and be yelled at by bored and unhelpful staff at the bogstandard cheapo equivalent but the time it takes for me to get there makes me shudder when I know I need that time to get passport photos done for one child and ferry the other to a tutor and sew the buttons back on the jacket I want to travel in....so I brace myself, and head into the high end supermarket. Why should it be so bad? This is the shop that gives you free coffee and a paper, for goodness sake. Ah, but in return you have to endure their relentless friendliness, their checkout staff trained to hold a PhD viva with you on every bloody item in your trolley. Morning, she says to me. Thank you SO much for bringing your own bags. 'S OK, I mutter, summoning a gargoyle like grin, hoping this will pass for a one stop shop of pleasanteries and she will now just get on with the business of scanning my overpriced peanut butter. But I know that this is just the beginning. I brace myself. Fennel, she beams. We have bags of four small fennel bulbs if you prefer. No thanks, I say, gritting my teeth (subtext: because if I wanted four small fennels I would have chosen them. I just want one. Just SCAN the damn thing!!) That's a lot of eggs, she comments. Are you sure you don't want the special 16 pack? Shall I buzz for a special freezer bag for those peas?  In house magazine Madam? I crack. Noooo, I almost sob. I don't want the magazine!! She stares. But why not, she pleads. It's free. Because it's RUBBISH, I tell her. It's full of bogus offers to make you buy more bloody mini fennel and multibags of okra! It has recipes in it from 1972! It's so bloody twee with its sodding stories of how local housewives have recycled their fir cones it makes me want to puke! I just - want - to - pay - for - my - food. She gulps. I can see tears forming in her eyes. Oh Lord. I take a deep breath. I learned deep breaths recently in the Times How To Meditate special supplement, and it helps. How the busy executive achieves zen. OK, I say. I'll take the magazine. She brightens instantly. And would you like a special rain protective bag for it? Sure, I say. After all, it's not like I believe in conserving the environment or anything. I clap my hands over my mouth but it's too late. Her lips quiver again. Give me two, I say. Two bags. By the time I leave, I am exhausted. There is an important lesson in this. Mine is, to chill out. Miss the flight? Someone else can take those meetings. But there is a pretty important lesson for high end supermarkets too. Learn to spot the busy working Mum. And give her the damn food.