When I was little my mum would give me sixpence for going to the shop to buy her fags. I would become so engrossed in choosing sweets from the long line of jars behind Jack Wilson’s counter that I would lose all track of time. The jars were filled with brightly shining jewels in myriad colours, and sixpence, spent carefully, could garner a whole quarter of pick and mix. Sometimes I spent so long looking that my mum, desperate for her snout, dispatched my older brother to find me and drag me home. I think I might have wet myself occasionally when the excitement got too much…
Today I popped into my corner newsagent to buy a natural yoghurt to enhance our curry tonight. A middle-aged woman was poking through a huge selection box of flavoured ‘vape’ refills. She had a strawberry and a raspberry but couldn’t make up her mind what to spend her next £24.00 on. Twat.
As I typed the above I remembered I had written a poem about the sweet shopping experience. It’s a kid’s poem really, but you might like it. It’s HERE