Check-outs bloom with tattooed prophets speaking in pierced tongues. It’s not quite the End of Days, but it’s the end of three-for-two offers, and this in itself feels somehow apocalyptic. It could be the way that they’re burning signs in the aisles, without two hoots for health and safety. It could be the way that the usual anodyne muzak’s been switched for Swedish metal, and it could be the way that the youth with the split lip rolls their eyes to the bloodshot whites and spits with each bland utterance. When they ask if you’ve plans for the weekend, you’re sure they already know. When they ask if you need a carrier bag, you’re compelled to look away. Whether you’ve cash or card makes no difference now that all you desired is packed for a hasty exit, and when they command you to have a nice day, there’s the hand on your shoulder that you have dreaded all your life.
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Oz Hardwick
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