Motherload

I got bored of writing at about 3pm today, and decided to have an excursion. First, I went to gather kindling from the paths around the cottage. Then I walked to the little town close by. Here I am, being W.G. Sebald: What I really did was walk to Waitrose. Of course I did, for this is the country, and I am from the city. I also went to Waitrose because the little town was completely deserted at 4pm and every single one of its shops appeared to be shut. Into the brilliantly-lit Waitrose cathedral I went, grateful for all its comforting condiments, tortillas, eighteen kinds of honey and 10% off with its store card. There's no place like home. At the checkout, the conveyor belt would not move. My stuff sat forlorn in the middle of the strip. The checkout lady bashed at big red buttons, muttered, got a colleague over. They peered at it together, and had a laugh about not breaking the equipment. Then she asked if I wouldn't mind pushing all my stuff down towards her. ...