The grocery shopping choices were limited when we were kids, not that it mattered, as we didn’t know any better. Our only option was that of ‘Eversheds’ who, surprisingly, like Boots don’t sell Boots, didn’t sell sheds.

The game was ramped up in my teens with the opening in Hastings of a huge Tesco’s who, to garner publicity, as if they needed it, started offering ‘nude shopping’ once a month I believe (and no, I didn’t). Why you’d want to walk around the chilled section as you chose your chipolatas for tea in the buff, I am not so sure, but each to their own and all that.

In the meantime, whilst Evershed aficionados I would go most nights round to my gran and grandad's for tea and a chat with some local random on the CB, a time which, despite its normality and simplicity were, looking back, among the happiest times of my life. Choice was, with the war generation and the experience of rationing, stark, but they made do, with bacon, eggs and liver sausage being go-to favourites as I would sit and 10-4 breaker with my gramps in his workshop, covered in sawdust and the smell of pipe tobacco as we both chewed the liver sausagery goodness. Great days.

But now choice is too great, not only in what you can buy but where and how you buy it too. We have become modern day sloths, not willing to drive a car through the maccies drive thru and instead paying a Deliveroo driver or the like a few quid to drop off a lukewarm Big Mac that looks nothing like the promo pictures.

There are some improvements with choice and change, however. Although I would not class myself as ‘lazy’ per se, if I’m after a few crates of Diet Coke (why do teenagers take a sip and then go back for another can?) I would rather pay Amazon to deliver it to my doorstep to save the unedifying sight of me trying to load them into the back of a Ford Fiesta ecoboost.

I have so far, and its only 11am as I wrote on Saturday, received two deliveries this morning: One from ‘Huel’ who, my brother claims were the instigators for him losing three-and-a-half stone in seven weeks and an AeroPress from Amazon (in which to make my morning brew).

The curious thing about this delivery process however is the ‘after sales’ service. No doubt you, as fellow purveyors of the lazy man's online purchase have, within moments of the item being dumped on your doorstep and the driver scarpering, whilst not even bothering to ring the door bell to, I surmise, 'save time’, been inundated with emails asking ‘how was your delivery’?

Take today's AeroPress for example: I was indoors, the driver did not ring, but took the time to picture the item outside of my front door to which I’m asked if the delivery was ‘great’ or ‘not so great.’ Being ‘not too bothered’ as I received it, I clicked on ‘great’ to click on reasons as to its ‘greatness.’ These include ‘cares for others,’ ‘above and beyond’ and ‘respectful of property.’

In the words of Roy Keane: ‘its his job’ and I cannot dance to the Amazon tune and ‘feedback’ on something as mundane as dumping something on my doorstep and then doing one onto the next.

It is the part of the process where I feel like a dinosaur for not playing the game, but it's not why I engage: I engage for convenience and laziness, and as long as I get my bits and pieces in good time and for a fair price, then that’s as far as my interest goes.

Still, feedback is a small price to pay when compared to the yesteryear alternative of an hour round trip in a Daf being driven by mother to Eversheds with the level of choice you could write on one side of a cigarette paper.

That said, I'd go back in a heartbeat to enjoy some liver sausage as what you know feels right as a comfort blanket as opposed to a dizzying choice which creates ongoing confusion and the start of a never-ending migraine…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher