‘As I walk down the High Street, working class old men hide in alleyways. They possess no teeth, making noise like snails on the Doritos which I cannot afford and remind me I must make do with supermarket only brands. I pull my children, Reg and Ron, behind me. They fight, like Katie Price’s knockers in a crop top, wailing ‘feed me, mama’. We enter an Iceland, it’s dim light like the industrial factories of yore, that once were here, but are no more. Where the sales assistants scrabble the hide the chicken kormas from my gnarled hands and the patrons move slowly round the aisles on mobility scooters like dodgems in a fairground. I check my pocket for loose change to feed my undernourished bairns, but realise I only have enough to buy myself a double sausage and egg McMuffin on Monday morning whence my charges will offloaded to other caretakers. A sly smile cracks my countenance as I recall an apple I threw in the bin the day before and think, ‘nay, you shall not go hungry today, my feral offspring. Not today’.’
That’ll be 250 quid, thanks.
