Costco is rubbish

On Friday I entirely bollocksed up joing Costco, the (apparently) very popular wholesale supermarket.
I need to buy supplies for a number of upcoming events offering refreshments and hospitality to many people: Costco I thought might be a good single source of wholesale goods. I was quite chuffed with myself at having got together the necessary paperwork for a trade membership. I signed up, though balking slightly at the £20+Vat membership charge but thinking that £2 a month would show dividends buying goods over the year.
I acquired my ID card with faint crappy photograph and also my superwide trolley and felt I'd joined an elite crowd of shoppers. Everyone looked well pleased with their trolley load though slightly harrassed. I immediately lost the plot, getting distracted by the TVs showing images of the tsunami sweeping through Sendai; I had heard only radio news and hadn't yet seen the images. So I stood crying in the aisle whilst others carried on looking at price labels; it reminded me of 11th September 2001 when I saw the first TV images of the WTC collapsing in Jarman Park leisure centre to the accompanying sound of laser games and bowling and kids matching disco steps. I pulled myself together and resumed shopping.
I mentally compared prices of photographic equipment and decided I could buy cheaper in any number of well-known retail park outlets. But I wasn't there to buy cameras. I headed for the toilet paper. I suppose it was "cheap" but I had to buy 144 rolls at a time; I was fazed by the storage problem and also that I wasn't organising Olympic shitting events but needed a couple of extra rolls on a couple of occasions. I declined the toilet paper.
I went to to the juices; I found giant Ribenas taped into pairs. I put some into the trolley for personal use though wondering again where in the house I was going to keep these and whether my daughter might possibly have left home before using these up. I also put a tray of lunchbox orange juice in the trolley, then took it out again, worried by the lack of variety and that my daughter currently needs fresh Vitamin C for iron absorption. The big juices, likewise, I declined because it seemed boring to buy large quantities of juice that wouldn't really be fresh. I moved on to the wine via the canoes; I was tempted by the canoe, also the 24metre long garden marquee, not that I am planning either an excursion to the Rockies or a wedding, also I would have to cut down all the trees in the garden, though they did have the equipment for that.
The wine counter was a disappointment: wine was cheap if bought in multiples of six ... but what if the first taste was crap and then you had to carry on drinking five more bottles of crappy wine? Single bottles were, without exception, all more expensive than even the most expensive of the well known supermarket chains; I know, I am an expert on wine prices. Dithering, I selected three multipacks of wine (one of each colour), total price £78. And a pack of polystyrene cups for hot drinks.
I tasted some jellybear vitamins for kids; they were quite nice, but I don't have malnourished small children. I felt the need to shop so I put some eyespray in the trolley because I'd seen it advertised on TV.
I then walked round and round in that state of "tharn" (what happens to rabbits in 'Watership Down' when caught in car headlights) that sometimes descends on me behind a shopping trolley. I totted up what my trolley load would cost and was appalled by the total; it was supposed to be cheap. My own shopping of late has gone down in cost with a son away managing his own weekly outlay; at home I've recently switched off the second fridge and the freezer, deciding not to store unecessary items of food at home and waste electricity when shops are a short distance away in every direction and items can even be bought singly. I realised I would never want to buy anything in bulk in this store and that, even for event shopping, this was not a good economy and I couldn't see how even the £24 membership outlay would be recuperated.
I looked around at other shoppers' trolleys loaded with giant boxes of strawberries and trays of a dozen iced buns and microwaves and gardening gloves and women desperately searching through dull piles of exercise clothing they would never wear ... and I knew what I had to do.
I abandoned my trolley (I am ashamed of this) and made my way back to the membership desk. "I want to cancel my membership", I said. "You are the first person in ten years who has ever asked to do this."