My shopping bags were too heavy. Could I take the obvious solution? | Jay Rayner

As a young man, I knew exactly what I needed to roast a chicken: a baking sheet and an oven to put it in, salt and pepper, and a uncompromising way with butter. As an older man, ie in his 50s, I now realize that there is another essential piece of equipment: a caddy. I bought one of these a few days ago and I'm not going to lie. It changed my life.

Like the shopping cart, it needs to be unpacked. I've never been very good at meal plans, despite the obvious benefits of putting together the ingredients for a week's worth of cooking in one go. I recognize their value, especially if you have a life that prevents you from hitting stores on the fly. I don't have that kind of life; I have something that looks more like a messy sock drawer. Fortunately, this allows for a bit of improvisation. The problem is that constantly improvising, trying to be an impulsive and imaginative cook, inspired to make that day's delicious creation by a simple purple phrase in a color supplement on the roundness of berries, can also be a complete pain in the < em>vas deferens. It takes effort. Walking to the shops is fine; coming back with canvas tote bags full of ingredients every other day can make a man very nervous, that man being me.

I knew there was a solution, because I had seen people using it. I just wasn't ready to become one of those people. By that I mean someone older, although I'm obviously not younger. That's the thing with our mid-fifties. It is one of the hinges of life, which opens a door to a new way of being. The challenge is to get through. At 54, I acquired an artificial hip, then spent some time searching online to convince myself that it was not a symptom of aging, which is both true and not. This year I was prescribed my first daily medication, fortunately quite mild. Others will no doubt join them in the years to come.

A few weeks ago, I tripped on a sidewalk and landed face down. When telling friends what had happened, I insisted that I had fallen. The fall is active. Children fall. Teenagers fall. But at some point, for older people, it becomes passive. Now you are "falling" as if the calamity is still there, waiting for you to pass. I was definitely not that person. The shopping cart was, in my opinion, part of the same narrative. Only people weakened by age needed to drag their groceries behind them on wheels.

It's because I'm an idiot. One afternoon, on my way to the shops, my head full of recipes and my hands full of empty tote bags, I once again reflected on the heavily laden effort of getting home ahead of me. I found myself in front of the Herne Hill Builders Centre. It's a landmark in my area of ​​South London. Yes, it's good for a Rawlplug and a paint bucket. But it also stocks 473,265 other lines, including cookware, inflatable Santas, bird food and a line of Chanel evening wear. I may have made one up, but you understand. It stores everything, including, it turns out, lightweight polyester wheeled bags.

The kind gentleman even packed it for me. I stuffed the canvas tote bags in there and walked away. And with that, my grocery store was revolutionized. My arms were saved. In the battle for a good dinner, the kind you can watch with a warm glow of success on even the dirtiest of days, it's the little things that count: the sharp knife; the well-emulsified sauce; the well-roasted chicken; and, in this case, the shopping cart.