Occasional,
I pull on the bio-hazard suit and go to Aldi. When I do, I make sure
to go to the middle section of the shop, the Area of Mystification,
just to see what madness they have stacked on the shelves. Sometimes
it's not the article on its own that provides the fun, but its
proximity to another. I often find the phrases, “... and therein
lies a tale”, or “The winter nights just fly by”, spring to
mind and I end up giggling my way down the 800 meter checkout
conveyor belt.
Purple
cello next to under-car-light-kit. (ELO band members getting pissed
and confusing which thing to 'hot up'.)
Artists'
easels next to motorbike safety leathers. (Because Fauvism.)
A lot
of the time, though, something will just sit there and beg all of its
own questions.
What
kind of day have you had, when you are forced to buy your wheelchair
at a discount supermarket?
You
are not picking it up from the medical supplier provided by your
insurer. You are not being issued with it at the exit of the
hospital. Your rehab specialist has not just had it measured and
fitted and is going through how lightweight, modern and Jackass it is
and how all of the young skate pros will be getting one.
What
are the alternatives? You have dragged yourself with your lips
through the car park, like you normally do, to get the shopping done
but today, the answer to your prayers accidentally turns up in the
Aisles of Bafflement? You needed to buy so many cans of suspect dog
food that your spine and legs gave way before the checkout, luckily
salvation was at hand?
I am a
bear of very little brain, but I simply cannot get my head around the
set of circumstances in play, where an opportunistic purchase of a
discount wheelchair is the antidote. Even the aging couple on the
pension, fat of fluid-filled-ankle and mad as a box of hammers (both
available in aisles seven and eight) are not going to get there and
realise that was what they needed. That happens before then.
Now.
Let's talk about Baun tablets and mobile phones...
