for c, a personal aquaintance of The Stupids
Today started with The Stupids. The Stupids creep up on you when you know you deserve to expect it. Well, they’re not even that good at creeping actually. The Stupids whump onto your eyelids at the first sign of waking and stain the entire morning with coffee-table bruised shins and an inability to read mail. What The Stupids really thrive on is lack of caffeine. Then they giggle around your head with all the final tcp vestiges and induce a persistent narcolepsy in your frontal lobes. Damn Stupids.
Fittingly, on this day where The Stupids were attempting to take over, turn all the philosophical essay writing missions into dribble, I was out of coffee. Time to go shopping.
Outside was bright and shiny and filled with morning tendencies which I found vaguely terrifying. I bumbled to Fresh Choice, with their rack of “fresh” fruit and veg dumped unceremoniously on Clerk Street to rot and shrivel among the Special Brew morning drunks and oversubscribed tanning studios. This morning, next to the 69p avocado tray and shrink wrapped oranges, the piece-de-la-resistance: peaches.
“Fresh Peaches” said the Fresh Choice sign.
“Yum yum,” said The Stupids.
“Yum yum,” said Jane.
The Fresh Choice man understands. He has seen many things since they became local saviours for Blackwood Crescent. There have been 9.55pm rushes for extra-strength cider, giggled rizla and crisps missions, 8am Sunday morning Tenants pleas, slouching come-down pizza missions. He is not the hangover man though, that honour is bestowed upon Mingtons in respect of their favourable proximity. The Mingtons’ man does not sell me peaches for breakfast, extra-strength cider, or the fine array of cardamom pods, chillies and cumin seeds Mr Fresh Choice displays so proudly. But he is within slippers distance of the flat, does not require facing the horror of Clerk Street mornings, and stocks Heinz spaghetti hoops to cure what ails you. However, The Stupids are not a hangover, and this morning I needed more than his shoddy offerings. So there I was in Fresh Choice, lurking round the bread aisle. Clingfilmed croissants. Tasty.
The caffeine front was less forthcoming. Nescafe gold blend; Nescafe Arabica; Nescafe supersize; Café Direct decaf. Le sigh. Mr Fresh Choice did not understand. “You want cheaper?” I stared dolefully at the Nescafe. The Stupids held up the moral conscience card with a triumphant flourish, mockingly headlocking any sensible thought processes which tried to fight their way out. Farewell morning. Maybe there are other shops.
Spar did not understand either. I told them of my morning caffeine dilemmas. The Spar man refused to grasp to concept of Fair Trade decaf.
“You know they employ African children to crush the caffeine from the beans with their bare toes. It’s all a con. Just buy the fucking Nescafe”
Stupids – 2 : Jane – 0.
to be continued post-coffee, post stupids, when the thought processes kick in once more.
Fittingly, on this day where The Stupids were attempting to take over, turn all the philosophical essay writing missions into dribble, I was out of coffee. Time to go shopping.
Outside was bright and shiny and filled with morning tendencies which I found vaguely terrifying. I bumbled to Fresh Choice, with their rack of “fresh” fruit and veg dumped unceremoniously on Clerk Street to rot and shrivel among the Special Brew morning drunks and oversubscribed tanning studios. This morning, next to the 69p avocado tray and shrink wrapped oranges, the piece-de-la-resistance: peaches.
“Fresh Peaches” said the Fresh Choice sign.
“Yum yum,” said The Stupids.
“Yum yum,” said Jane.
The Fresh Choice man understands. He has seen many things since they became local saviours for Blackwood Crescent. There have been 9.55pm rushes for extra-strength cider, giggled rizla and crisps missions, 8am Sunday morning Tenants pleas, slouching come-down pizza missions. He is not the hangover man though, that honour is bestowed upon Mingtons in respect of their favourable proximity. The Mingtons’ man does not sell me peaches for breakfast, extra-strength cider, or the fine array of cardamom pods, chillies and cumin seeds Mr Fresh Choice displays so proudly. But he is within slippers distance of the flat, does not require facing the horror of Clerk Street mornings, and stocks Heinz spaghetti hoops to cure what ails you. However, The Stupids are not a hangover, and this morning I needed more than his shoddy offerings. So there I was in Fresh Choice, lurking round the bread aisle. Clingfilmed croissants. Tasty.
The caffeine front was less forthcoming. Nescafe gold blend; Nescafe Arabica; Nescafe supersize; Café Direct decaf. Le sigh. Mr Fresh Choice did not understand. “You want cheaper?” I stared dolefully at the Nescafe. The Stupids held up the moral conscience card with a triumphant flourish, mockingly headlocking any sensible thought processes which tried to fight their way out. Farewell morning. Maybe there are other shops.
Spar did not understand either. I told them of my morning caffeine dilemmas. The Spar man refused to grasp to concept of Fair Trade decaf.
“You know they employ African children to crush the caffeine from the beans with their bare toes. It’s all a con. Just buy the fucking Nescafe”
Stupids – 2 : Jane – 0.
to be continued post-coffee, post stupids, when the thought processes kick in once more.
posted by Jane at 3:37 pm
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