ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
As the clock wound down on another Tuesday from hell, a local piece of
As our reporter looked on, Dale Peckham’s eyes glanced from the McCain’s Margherita to the generic brand meat lovers.
He baulked as his hand reached to open the door.
“No, that’s covered in processed meat. I don’t want the Spanish dancer to tango through my colon. At least not right now,” he said softly to himself.
“But it’s $3.47 – which is a great price. But I could get a six pack of Snowy River Pies for that, too. Or two dozen Black & Gold party pies and a can of Fanta. That’s what I probably deserve,”
“Fuck it, I’m getting a McCain’s Supreme, the Rolls-Royce of frozen pizza. My Etherium is on the up and I deserve a treat.”
Suddenly, Dale looked over at our reporter, who was standing close enough to have heard him say all that weird stuff to himself.
He let out another sigh and started walking off in the opposite direction up the aisle – staring longingly at the Birdseye Chicken Kievs that only the most well paid bag of shit can afford to chow down on.
Our reporter smiled at Dale, then looked down into his own shopping basket.
Expired mince pies, a thick log of luncheon meat with a dog on it. Two loaves of on-special Turkish bread
A little basket of heaven.
Dale came back around the other side of the frozen section, behind were our reporter was standing. He looked cross.
“How dare you judge me, Errol, you fucking prick?!” he said in his outside voice, despite being inside a supermarket.
Our reporter shurgged.
But then Dale saw what was in our reporter’s basket.
“You don’t have a dog, do you?” said Dale. “You’re eating dog food?”
Our reporter nodded and shrugged again.
“Jesus Christ, man. Sort your fucking life out! I know journalism is facing a downturn but have some goddamn fucking respect for yourself!”
More to come.
