Sitting in a shopping cart, brandishing a plastic toy lightsaber and screeching and cackling like a mad thing. Can't see past the front of the buggy, view is obstructed by the other passenger - clinging to the thin metal behind them for dear life and bellowing out half-hysterical warnings of apparently imminent collision courses. It's a miracle no accidents have happened yet.
The space in the buggy steadily decreases as groceries, the instigating reason for this trip, selfishly pile in. Disapproving stares are directed at the careening buggy, with its two passengers, the two pushers in the rear, and the pullers situated one on each side. Murmurs and epithets are spit out - hoodlum, menace, maniac - jealous, all of them, of the fun.
For once, everyone in the line respects personal space - no one wants to be associated with the high-spirited hooligans. For once, checking out is an adventure. Then it's a mad bouncing dash over the pitted, pocked parking lot to the car. Snigger at the gleeful discussion about the parents' exasperated reactions, load the groceries. Sit down on the comfortingly cushy seats in the car, make a mental note to pad the hard wire buggy, on the next trip.