older than you look

This is to keep me humble.

Supermarket scene. Have dragged husband so we can do a whole-week shop for once, instead of me trawling the store every morning with my basket. The shop assistants - who know me well - watch quizzically as I take a big red trolley and he pushes.

I arrive late to the till after foraging for raisins. My husband is already unpacking. This is always the worst part. We shop in OK (Where Everyone's a Winner). Traditionally whites don't, preferring the more upmarket Spar or - at the very least -- TM. A shopping trolley total of 50 US raises eyebrows here and lots of silent studying from the rest of the till queue (and requests for us to pay for their tea-leaves/bread/sugar too). Even though we are far from the only shoppers in the store with a trolley.

The security guard smiles at me as I pack.

"Amai," he says. "Is that your boy? Your son?"

"Son?!" I manage to keep my voice down. "He's my husband."

Now what does that mean?