I had nothing to offer the world today. These days happen about once every couple of months. However much I try to muster enthusiasm, intelligence or even just effort, it doesn't come. I sit at my desk, tapping 'page-up', 'page down' – hoping one of them will bring me back into the game, but the hours throw themselves away. Nothing is really getting done.
“Do you want a bag?” the girl in Sommerfield asked. I didn't know. I had bought a carton of orange, chicken breasts and two tubes(?) of shower gel. I could of balanced it all without a bag and done my part to save the worldy thing that we live on, on the other hand...
I realised I didn't have it within me to make a decision and that it had now been a good few seconds since she'd asked the question. My only option was to just choose one of the two words 'yes' or 'no'. I could spin a coin – but that would be so damningly odd I'd probably have to move flat and grow a beard. I get ginger facial hair so that wasn't an option. I decided to say the word that was the shortest and hope for the best.
"No," I said rather too loudly. She pulled back a bag I hadn't noticed she was preparing. Shit, I am such an ungrateful bastard.
"Yes – actually yes," I quickly improvised, "I have got two bottles of shower gel." This justification has just been confirmed as the most unnecessary since records of justifications people make in supermarkets began. She handed the bag over to me with a hesitancy and precision of a woman who was being held up by an armed bag robber. I stuffed my goods in there, looked around cautiously, and got the fuck out of there.
I'm home and safe now and there's football is on the television. I can't remember the name of the commentator – he's the one who shouts a single word very loudly every time someone has an attempt at goal. "HEADER", "JONES!" and less impressively: "OOOOOH!" Dwight Yorke is the co-commentator. I'm not sure whether he's actually seen a football match before. He might say that about me and bags.