Do You Get Chips with It?

Let us take each other firmly by the elbow and go throw rainbows at any passing vicar, or any other person of an ecumenical persuasion as we dance down the street resplendent in our earmuffs, mittens and brightly-patterned wellies. Let us laugh at the paucity of travel agent premises which once o’er-brimmed the very High Streets of all we hold dear, now gone to that place that shops go to die, that place where the excessive amount of shoe shops that once plagued us all went too.

I shall take the ceremonial Cornish Pastie, held aloft at the head of the procession down that very same High Street. Then place it with all due solemnity and ceremony on the cusp of the town centre fountain, before turning to face the amassed congregation. We will then sing the praises of fast food as we revel in our good fortune to have a High Street so heavily populated by that wonder of the modern age that is the Most Holy Take-Away.

Here, in this modest High Street, it seems there all the foods of the world laid out for us to sample. If only it were not far too much trouble for us to heave our enormous sweaty bulk from outlet to outlet in order to taste all the wonders their many differing menus provide, and – of course – to make sure we have chips with everything.