ournalism is an excellent tool that keeps us up to date on wars, disputes and other fractious frictions around the globe.

In June 1940 Winston Churchill stated, in part, that “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the hills, we shall never surrender.” But the Great Man had never tackled the battle I’m about to report on: Walmart — on a Saturday.

Drum roll if you please ... shoppers, you know what I’m talkin’ about.

If you will, picture my recent excursion to the hallowed halls of this superstore.

It was a beautiful day, I headed out with my shopping list (and a baleful stare from my loving pooch reminding me her rotisserie chicken was long overdue) and my spirits were high.

I grabbed a shopping cart and started in the produce aisle, along with half of Hattiesburg.

Undaunted, I squeezed melons, grabbed grapes and bagged beans.

Aisles were congested and there was a traffic slowdown in aisle 8, which was becoming a blockade. (Have you noticed that Saturday shoppers take their job seriously with grim faces and determination rivaling a Sherman tank??)

At one end of the aisle two women were engaged in an absorbing discussion of who did what and to whom.

I cleared my throat politely and said cheerfully, “Excuse me, ladies” — nothing, not a glance.

I repeated the “ahem” a bit louder, and was rewarded with a glance, but no movement.

At that point I threw caution to the wind, gave a HARRUMPH that sounded like a TB ward and waited.

This time the waters parted and I sailed graciously through.

I headed two aisles over where another roadblock was in progress, this time shopping carts AND coupon-carrying women with unhappy husbands in tow. (Observation: if men did all the shopping, they’d empty the shelves of all things sugary, crunchy and fizzy and be out the door in 10 minutes).

After tactful negotiations there I headed for the deli. Taking care to avoid a sticky clean-up of questionable origin, I inched towards my goal.

At about 20 feet from target I spied — the LAST rotisserie chicken on the rack. I revved my cart into third gear and proceeded.

Uh-oh, incoming at 2 o’clock; another shopper with her eyes on the same prize. As we each move forward our eyes lock and the theme from “Jaws” begins to pulsate in my head.

We move faster, hands clenched and sandals flapping until I reach Mr. Chicken with seconds to spare!

I smile gently at my opponent; it’s OK, my smile said, I’ve lost this race before, too. Downshifting her cart into second she rolls sadly away.

I head triumphantly home, the weekly battle of the shopping carts behind me. I am smiling; my dog will be happy — and I believe Winston would be proud.