Good grief… the award for most muttered sentence in Waitrose this morning (insert a tut and a sigh to precede) goes to: ‘Oh, what the..? All the tea’s gone’. Yep. Gone. Not a decent teabag to be had, unless you like tea that tastes like a bunch of flowers.
Don’t even get me started on the bog rolls. The supplies were wiped out, if you’ll forgive the pun. I didn’t even need any but went to have a look anyway, just so I could feel indignant. I know, I need to get out more. If I were the cynical type, I’d put forward my conspiracy theory that coronavirus has been unleashed on the world by the evil genius that is Andrex. Cute puppies, my arse. In our new apocalyptic age, instead of peddling drugs on street corners, there’ll be seedy types with their secret stash of loo roll. ‘Awright, darlin’… you want a bit o’ the good stuff? A pound a patch to you…’
Oddly, there wasn’t any flour to be had either. I imagine all the Waitrose types are waiting for the slightest hint of a sniffle, just so they can self-isolate and free up some time to finally sort that sourdough starter they’ve been meaning to try for ages. Come to think of it, I feel a bit of a tickle coming on…
(In other news, the first chapter of the novel has been written; 3,500 words done, 86,500 to go. Perhaps I’d better stop taking photos of toilet rolls and get on with it, eh?)