The supermarket's entire fleet has developed a collective consciousness, and I'm pretty sure I'm the reason—every trolley I touch goes silent for exactly forty-three seconds, then the front-left wheel begins a high-pitched wail specifically calibrated to make toddlers look up from their tablets. Last week I abandoned a cart mid-aisle and watched a man grab it; the wheel didn't make a sound until he saw me watching, then it *screamed*, and he actually checked underneath for a dying animal. Now I've started leaving my trolley choices to fate—I close my eyes and point—but somehow the universe is rigging this against me, because even the flatbed trolleys have developed squeaks, and a flatbed trolley should not make noise, yet there it was, shrieking like a tiny metal ghost that resents being pushed toward the hummus. My wife suggested I just accept it and shop at Waitrose instead, which was the cruelest thing anyone's ever said to me, so now I'm pretty sure the squeaking isn't about the trolley at all—it's about punishment.