A bus pulls away outside, somewhere out there beyond the frosted glass window of the shop I’m in. It's the 80 or 87, or even maybe the new X7, I think; heading off towards Birmingham in the night. Probably not the X7 though, as the pained sound of the diesel engine that had rattled itself into life in the cold sounded too old to be one of the new buses.
But what does it matter? I think this to myself, sighing as I look down at the £3.97 gourmet ready meal in my hand, then up again at the two people ahead of me in the queue. This my friend, this is the life. I'm living large, here in this late night corner shop in Smethwick. Hoping forlornly that another assistant will drag themselves away from the TV, blaring out in the backroom, and come out to operate the spare till so that I can get out of dodge and go home. Or if they can’t be arsed to man the till, hoping that a trapdoor will suddenly open up in the floor, ahead of me, sending the customers downwards into a pit of crocodiles.
So, here’s the thing, neither of these things will happen. No-one will come to man the till, and that trap door will never open.
Hashtag sad-face.
Nonetheless, I stare ahead, a smile slowly forming on my face as I imagine crocodiles chowing down on the two customers in front, thrashing them around in the water, the crocodiles curling around them in a vice-like grip, and then spinning them under the frothing water.
Eat well my pretties, I think to myself, and then become wide-eyed and startled as I hope I haven’t just said that out loud, and then relax again when I realise my internal monologue - was, well, just that - internal.
1/7