Mid-scan, the girl on the checkout froze.
She was staring open-mouthed at Bloke, a rhubarb Longley Farm yoghurt clasped rather too tightly in her left hand.
He was doing the trolley unloading, oblivious to her adoring gaze. I, down at bag-packing, was watching. And wondering. And waiting; what on earth was wrong with the lass. I might think he’s a handsome man, but I’m married to him and I’m 51.
After I’d rustled a few carriers in a way that implied; getting impatient, please get a move on, she kind of came to, as if a hypnotist had just snapped his fingers.
“Oh,” she said, flushing up into Bloke’s startled face: “I thought you were Sam Trammell for a minute.”
Neither of us had a clue who she was talking about.
“You know - he’s in True Blood. He’s a shape-shifter,” she said. I could see my husband trying to decide if he’d just been given a compliment or an outmoded homophobic insult.
I Google-imaged this Trammell chap when we got to the car; I may not be trendy enough to watch True Blood, but I do now have an HTC phone AND I know how to use it.
Sam Trammell? I wish. It was indeed a compliment. OK, he has floppy hair, a bit of a beard and, lucky chap, a slight look of Bloke, but he must be 20 years younger. What was the girl thinking of? Not least, why would a famous Hollywood TV actor have rocked up at Morrisons in Catcliffe to do a weekly shop?
It didn’t go to Bloke’s head, though. He’s used to being compared with somebody famous. When I first met him, friends and family all announced he was Neil Diamond’s doppelganger.
I could see the resemblance; it’s something to do with his nose, and those sideburns and big bushy eyebrows.
In those days, that was the only facial hair he had. Now I’ve persuaded him to sport longer locks and stubble, he doesn’t look like Neil any more; or Robson Sodding-Green (I’ve heard him say to his dad ‘I do not look like Robson Sodding Green’ so many times, I thought it perhaps needed a hyphen).
He doesn’t think he’s like any of them. He thinks he looks like no one. Which I’d say is unusual. Though I do know someone who thinks he looks like George Clooney and actually does if you take your glasses off, I think we all have an idea of who we look like to look like and it’s never the person folk tell us we do.
Take my dad; as a young man, he thought he was the dead spit of Frank Sinatra. In later life, he decided he was more of a Lee Van Cleef (you know; sharp-featured spaghetti western baddie, beady eyes squinting in the desert sun). There was a smidgen of each. A smidgen; the rest was all his mother.
One of my blonde friends cannot see she is the dead spit of Bridget Jones, even when I swiftly add the addendum: though slimmer. She’d much prefer it if I said she was the double of that singer; whatsername... Dido.
I’ve never actually asked my big brother who he secretly thinks he looks like, but I bet you my last and extremely hard to find blackcurrant Longley Farm it isn’t Top Gear’s James May or Frank Gallagher off Shameless, to whom, in my sisterly view, he has been most unfairly compared.
Me? I’m thrilled to have been compared to Amanda Redman - and Cameron Diaz’s mother.
Thrilled because I know exactly who I really look like. My own mother - more so with every passing day.