A SHOPPER was asked for ID when buying fruit from a supermarket this week - with the store saying that the fruit could possibly ferment and turn into alcohol.

Before you are all whipped up into a supermarket-hating frenzy, the store staff claim the fermentation line was an obvious joke and I’d tend to believe that.

On the other hand, my first reaction when I read the story was “uh, yeah, that’s possible.”

I was once asked for ID when buying a potato peeler. I asked the checkout operator: “Why, in case I peel someone to death?” She took a long look at me and said: “You never know.”

THAT is one of the many supermarket incidents I have had over the years.

I argue on a daily basis with the self-service machines, which I tend to favour because I despise inane, pointless conversation.

Though it appears only I can get drawn into an even more pointless conversation with a machine.

My main complaint is that they are so impatient.

“UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA.” To which I scream: “It’s not unexpected! I put it there. It’s entirely expected!”

Then it demands payment, quicker than I can make it. Woe betide me if I use coins.

But when it comes around to producing a receipt, it takes its time, leaving an uncomfortable stand-off where I’m literally dragging it from the machine.

Come the revolution, they will be the first against the wall.

WHILE I’m on about supermarkets, one thing bothers me about them.

The rise of the hypermarket idea over the years has transformed our humble supermarkets into huge operations.

Everything you need, all under one roof, as big as an airport terminal.

Opticians, pharmacy, clothes, furniture, lifts, escalators - you could get lost in one. In fact, it’s entirely possible I will, one day.

So why, dear God why, are their doors only big enough for one trolley at a time, which turns either leaving or arriving at the store in an annoying “you first”, “no, you first” stand-off with the shopper directly opposite you.

And if the doors are going to be so tight, why put a breakdown service salesman right in front of it too? Why, at any point, would I consider renewing my breakdown cover in the foyer of an Asda?

Answers on a postcard.

AS KEEN readers of this column will know, we moved house recently, which needs a lot of care and attention to turn from a former student house into a nice home.

Shunned from DIY duties, my role is reduced to chief screw carrier, wall plug selector, tool retriever and thing-holder-upper. I’ve also perfected the job of holding the other side of a tape measure so far without disaster.

For the next week or so, painting is on the agenda. We’ve gone through the arduous task of looking at endless pages of colours, trying to tell the difference between silk and satin, and wondering if it would be cheaper to buy a room’s worth of tester pots than buying a standard pot of paint (it isn’t).

My daughter is a little more pragmatic about it. Rather than poring over the spectrum of colours available, she simply sighed and said: “why don’t we just paint the whole house Mongolia?”

I suspect she meant magnolia, but she’ll do for me.