I was drugged today, at the dentists, and as my legs seemed to have a life of their own I weaved my way by unmarked pedestrian kerbs and slid by new cycle pathways until I crossed the boundary and was abroad in the parish of Walthamstow, in the village where Riney’s men are hauling blocks of stone kerbstones on trollies and speaking in foreign tongues. As I couldn’t eat I went to Spar to browse.
Oh, perlease! One cupcake for that! As Fireman Sam holy schmolies, “By the fires of London Bridge!” I carried on my research into what the other half pay. “No No No”, says Mr Wolf. Ooh, there’s bacon jam and tiny bits of cheese and locally made spinach pies and pizzas in the making, single apples all polished and rosy all at pricey prices. I felt disloyal to Tesco but hey, I’d bought nothing yet. I searched for something that didn’t cost me a wage packet from the seventies. Only the Spar label products offered me a sense of reality and a nod to austerity. I bought a jar of Spar marmalade for 70p, almost the cheapest thing in the shop. It’ll do until I’ve bottled my own Mirabelle Plum jam.