If you ask me what I miss most about home, you might expect me to say family or friends, or maybe my cat…or even my car. You would be wrong.

I miss Waitrose. Yes really!

It was a weekly ritual which I could almost romantasize. I’d leave the gym each Sunday, drive over to Canary Wharf, safely park my car underground, and take the lift to level M. Arriving in store to the softly lit aisles, greeted by beautiful flowers at the entrance, the scent of fresh baking, the perfectly stacked produce, endless selection, the gentle hum of indulgence. Perfectly organised, a sanctuary where i would spend the next 25 minutes adding to my basket weekly essentials and more. Eventually I’d queue up with my organic cotton store branded tote, pay for my items and validate my car park ticket on my way out. Smooth and delightful.

Because sometimes, it’s not about what you buy—it’s about the feeling that comes with it. And no supermarket in Paris quite compares.

The other week, my friend Gulia and I decided to pop into Monoprix—a French supermarket I’d possibly compare to Tesco. It was one of the larger stores near my apartment.

We had a plan. Grab our items and regroup in the fresh veg section. “Sounds good. See you in five.”

Five minutes later, coconut milk and dark chocolate in hand (essentials), I arrived to find Gulia waiting patiently by the kale, her basket already full. She watched as I rifled through the pile, debating whether the slightly limp bunch of greens in my hand could be redeemed as oven-roasted crispy kale with dinner.

That’s when it happened.

“Don’t move,” she said. Calm and sharp. The kind of tone that freezes you mid-motion.

Why? Is there a fly on my kale? A wasp on my shoulder? Everyone knows my deep, irrational fear of anything that flies or crawls. Eventhough I’ve become accustomed to swatting away Parisian produce pests, this felt different.

She continued. “And don’t look up.”

So naturally, I looked up.

Big mistake.

Suspended above me, scurrying along the wooden beams of Monoprix’s ceiling, was a mouse. Not a wasp, not a shadow. An actual mouse, very contently living life up there above me.

What happened next is a blur of adrenaline. I squealed, dropped my kale, grabbed Guila, and ran. Full sprint. Like fugitives escaping a crime scene.

All I could think about as we bolted out the doors was Ratatouille. His entire rat family, post-closing time, indulging in a Parisian feast. Munching on kale, apples, and carrots. Frolicking over produce as if they’d weighed, scanned, and paid €10 at checkout.

Needless to say, I have never set foot in that Monoprix again.

These days, I’ve swapped the supermarkets aisle for something far more charming: shopping local. It’s a Parisian way of life I’ve come to embrace—a transformation that London-me would never have seen coming.

Now, armed with my trusty organic cotton tote (yes, it made the move with me), I hop from shop to shop, collecting my daily essentials. Fresh bread from the boulangerie. Perfectly cut meat from the boucherie. Fruits and vegetables from the sweet man on Rue Montorgueil. And if I’m feeling indulgent, I’ll pop into the little pâtisserie next door for a treat.

Alors, I don’t have Waitrose anymore. But what I do have is something even better—a collection of local shops, fresh produce, and owners who now know me well enough to greet me with a warm “Bonjour, ça va?” Something you’re unlikely to hear over the monotone beeps of a self-checkout machine.

Because in Paris, these daily errands (rather than weekly, another Parisian way of living) actually feel personal, and I love that. It’s a luxury I didn’t find on a London supermarket shelf.

Bisous, Bisous