Sabaeliganism: Same as Sabianism (Middle Eastern religious precursor to Islam)
Gravenstein: A kind of fall apple marked with streaks of deep red and orange and of excellent flavor and quality
Buteonine: relating to or resembling a hawk of the genus Buteo; possessing large powerful hooked beaks for tearing flesh from their prey, strong legs and powerful talons.
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A pair of ruby traffic lights entomb the traffic totems in a momentary caesura, exhaust fumes swelling like lactic acid amongst the tyre treads. It’s lunch-time and across the zebra stripe road, a meal deal beckons like the pot of gold at the end of a monochrome rainbow.
The temperature drops as the automatic curtains are pulled back, chills are multiplying, the refrigerators buzz with a dead glow. A Nectar Card toting Indiana Jones perusing rows of sandwiches like the dates on a calendar, their packaging garish and cheap, their innards limp and listless. It’s a hot day and I can feel the curling lip of brown lettuce pulling at my heartstrings.
‘Excuse me.’
An office boy butts in, grabs a BLT, pack of crisps and an Innocent smoothie. He immediately blends back into the crowd, swallowed by a current of quinoa salads and flat-heeled shoes. Too much choice, where’s the little packs of fruit? Apple and grape, Gravenstein and Ruby Romans, Denmark and Japan, an unlikely yet decadent duo. However, I think it’s only Granny Smith slices and little purple marbles. The white tooth of the apple is stained pink.
Around a corner, I wish David Attenborough were here as I watch a woman, buteonine, snare her son with manicured talons, bright pink with white playboy bunnies – Sistine nails. He’s spilled a box of cereal and now he’s spilling tears. Wriggling like a freshly caught fish in his mother’s grasp. ‘And so the cycle of nature continues…’ mumbles Attenborough, eyeing a box of risotto rice that’s currently two-for-one.
‘Bentley! Bentley, now you c’mere! Little shit! What’cha fink yer doin? And where’s yer sister? Mercedes! Mercedes!’
What’s this woman the head of, a family or a car show room? ‘I’ve think I’ve got the wrong program,’ mumbles Attenborough as he joins the back of the self-service queue. He’s gone from my mind by the time I reach the front, not that anything else could be when I hear the sonorous cry of ‘next please!’
Dominic scans then bags my goods and I’m left to my own devices – idle, hifalutin ideas; the sort that wouldn’t fit through a 10-items-or-less lane. Sainsbury’s to Lidl; Jamie Oliver to…well, someone; Islam to Sabaeliganism. Good word. A Wikipedia binge paying dividends.
‘D’you want any cashback?’ asks Dominic, broad chested and dark hair closely shorn.
‘Nah, it’s ok. Wait…no.’
If you don’t have it, you can’t spend it. That’s simple logic. That’s just one of the epiphanies I’ve had whilst tapping my pin code into the little fiscal Ark of the Covenant, fingers lithe as Mozart in the morning. Digits swirl, melt, LEDs expire and resurrect just down the street, little digital abacuses sending messages in Morse, a cacophony of 1’s and 0’s that dictate all and don’t really exist unless we all believe in them. I keep the receipt, just in case.
When I leave the store, bag in hand, receipt in pocket, the midday sun washes over me and I decide this must be how a reptile feels.
Stories On The Sofa 