The Discount Warehouses of Our Souls

But then, back in those days there were Brussels sprouts aplenty and we did not have to mount our trusty pogo sticks and venture into the wild untamed jungles of Wolverhampton, just to find brassicas running wild and free. Of course, we had waterproof anoraks, so we were not scared of the fearsome banjo-playing wild men that haunted the pedestrian underpasses demanding fearsome tribute in order to discontinue their fearsome caterwauling and thereby allowing us to pass in peace and safety.

Now though we look out on the wide-open spaces of the ring road as we sit and remember all that we have lost as we haunt the discount warehouses of our souls and recall the bargain basements of yesteryear.

In those days the market stalls had vegetables as far as he eye could see and the chin could ponder. Nowadays though all we have is this one single Brussels sprout between us and we sit forlornly here, while we wait for the saucepan of doom to come to the boil.

We sing our songs of loss and count our small change of foreboding, wondering if there will be enough gravy of destiny for us all. On the other hand, whether one of us will – once again – have to venture out down to the supermarket of fading dreams to make that single desultory purchase that seems to freeze like ice around our once so-brave hearts.