Oblong Scone

We miss you Sommerfield and all your silly shelves full of all those things, that anywhere else, would never have been able to sit next to each other. Baked beans striking up conversations with Sellotape; cheese crying on the shoulder of Cif after falling out with an obscure Sandra Bullock DVD. It's been three months, and your tears are black ice. Co-op has replaced you and it tries its best: It wears slightly eccentric jumpers and watches films by Mike Leigh. But the flowers in its hair are from a local garage and it sells olives boringly. It will tell you about how it's put bits of blue cheese in with them, but the olives hate this imposter. They want you back Sommerfield. We all do. We're sorry about everything we've ever said.

The woman on the next table is angry about stuff. All stuff. Everything that constitutes stuff has anger aimed at it from this woman. Her husband, also in his sixties, rests back into his chair content to tiredly utter well worn mumbles of agreement. The subject of the day is benefits. Her running through of categories of people that 'shouldn't get a penny' quickly disqualifies anyone who's not white, middle-class and over sixty. “They've all got tattoos of course,” she takes a second to let her whore of an observation parade itself proudly around the pub draping itself all over men with beards and hate, “how can they afford tattoos if they don't have a job?” “We're paying for 'em,” her husband says . “We're paying for 'em,” she says before moving onto fingers, “and they've all got nice nails.” The tone in her voice is now so incredulous, I want to record it; make it a lasting exhibit of 'incredulous'; play it back to anyone who asks ...

We brave misunderstood balding English, standing in battered bus stops under angry regimental downpours. This courageous underrepresented British minority desperate to reassert our identity against all that…you know…stuff. Them dragons…them dragons… THOSE WELSH ARE STEALING ALL OUR JOBS! Anyway, let me tell you - there was no way I was going to miss out on celebrating St Georges Day like THEY want us to. Them…you know the ones with their ‘Political Correctness’, their endless bullying that tries to curb our lazy hate. And there I was on the great day itself realising well over a minute before half seven in the evening that it was actually St Georges day (I’d walked past a pub that said ‘It’s St Georges Day’ on a sign [it also said ‘Why don’t you come in and slay a dragon?’ which didn’t so much make sense as rather not make sense, but look at me mum I’m using square brackets(probably haven’t done it correctly though[I’m so out of my deapth])] ) I stopped for a minute, watching a Y-reg...

Why should you? Why should you have to interrupt the bounce bounce bounce indie post-indie stride because some car may want to turn ‘left’ onto some road you must apparently cross. Fuck them - why should he throw it all away after all this. All this consciously conscious progress down the pavement with you not caring, the shades in the gloom, the jeans that fit in a way that only one percent of the population are interested in and half of those understand. This is the stage, the paving, walking into the distance, out of sight with out any compromise to practicality. This is all about who you are and nothing about almost anything there...is... and you’re in the middle of the road and nothing hits you - maybe becuase 'nothing' could be bothered, but most likely because it just fucking couldn't. You laugh at the lifeless body of that Green Cross Code Man you remember from school. Is it shallow to put everything into your walk and nothing into your destination? Would this blok...