I had to go grocery shopping with the wife.

    My idea of shopping is a very simple one; obtain a list of items from my Dearly Beloved, park as close to the supermarket as possible then sprint round the food aisles like Speedy Gonzales on amphetamines thereby saving enough time to browse the beer and spirits section at my leisure. When I reach the checkout, most of the correct items are in the trolley and I can usually make it back home before I get the inevitable cell phone call requesting an additional item she forgot to write down.

    I’ve always assumed this is correct protocol…until I actually went with the wife.

    Rather than grabbing the first thing from a particular section and lobbing it into the trolley (without ever coming to a complete stop), she scrutinises every single item for weight, price, sell by date and cost per gram. By the time she’s finished prodding the third cabbage I would be speeding past the frozen peas, leaving mothers and small children scattered in my wake like the aftermath of a rally car ploughing into a crowd of spectators.

    I casually enquire if it wouldn’t be easier (and quicker) to purchase a bag of mixed vegetables rather than fondling each carrot individually.

    Bad move.

    When the screaming has died down I get a lecture on household money management and quality control.

    I stand there with my head hanging in shame like a naughty schoolboy as she completes her sermon and receive knowingly distasteful looks from every other woman within earshot. As I look up I notice several other men receiving exactly the same speech, all standing in an identical pose and each with the same look of shame across his face.

    Presumably this is something women learn at school.

    I think they are taken away to a separate class where the finer points of ritual supermarket humiliation are ingrained into them. The advanced class probably concerns shoe shops.

    Two hours later we reach the register and are confronted by that other bastion of female supremacy…the Checkout Girl. The items are scanned and paid for, but not before the store employee and Mrs. Snowman have entered into a lengthy discussion about under-arm deodorants, sanitary towels and the general stupidity of the male species.

    From now on, all grocery shopping will be done over the Internet with a credit card and they can deliver everything to the front door.

    Today’s poker was a lot more successful than the shopping.

    Although the freerolls once more produced a zero increase to the fund, the 1c/2c tables proved fruitful once again.

    I invested $2 and expected to be sat with the usual collection of donks and maniacs. However, the players at this table were anything but stupid. Sensible betting and good folds were the norm and for the first time since I embarked on my quest I was able to really enjoy the poker. The banter in the chat box was friendly and amusing and the cards were good. After three and a quarter hours I’d made $3.10 profit and left the table before I did anything stupid with the winnings.

    Indeed, I was one hand short of doubling my stake when I lost out to an ace high flush against two pair (I was also chasing the straight). I was magnanimous in defeat and congratulated my opponent on a hand well played.

    This is, of course, a euphemism. By “well played” what I really meant was “I hope your penis falls off and your balls turn green before you get to the next round”.

Starting bank:  $0