The two fat slags were ahead of me in the supermarket queue, and their wares hovered on the small conveyor belt that through the ages of history has been magically controlled, through bizarre witchery by the ubiquitous check-out woman.
I hoped against hope they had bought healthy food, for they were really rotund, both of them, in a way that ensured they were never buying clothes in any normal clothes shop. I’d seen them around a few times, getting off a bus, getting on a bus, arriving at the supermarket and departing from the supermarket, in geat long skirts that looked like curtains, or ultra tight spandex leggings and t shirts.
In-between the two large packets of chips I saw two small plastic boxes of limp salad pieces; dry, browning with age, with a small chunk of tomato and soggy slice of cucumber, an overpriced bit of junk that passed for salad, bought by the gullible.
They were trying, but losing, and the conveyor belt rolled forward, knocking the soda bottles they had added over, a multitude of colours, a multitude of toxic garbage. And when one of the fat slags caught my eye I smiled, for I felt for them, these two women who never bothered anyone, did not know anyone else to bother anyway, and were so clearly victims of the modern corporate consumarist culture.
My smile echoed on them briefly. My heart went out to them. I felt the loneliness of each other on them, and so desperately wanted to invite them for a walk through my forest I visit every morning, and I knew that in nature lay the answer, that a morning walk among trees would help them feel part of something so natural, so soothing that they so needed.
But I said nothing, and watched them trudge, or waddle out of the shop, the charming, endearing pair, carrying plastic bags emblazened with the logo of some chemical concoction or another, in bright yellows and reds.
the samuai observes
all battles lost