On the End of the World
I slowed down on my way through town today, like a motorway ghoul rubbernecking a pile-up in the hope of spotting a real dead corpse so as to be able to say “Ewww… a CORPSE! How AWFUL!”, and took a left into Woolworth’s for a sneak preview of the end of the world. Can’t remember the last time I visited. Having outgrown pick’n’mix some time ago, what would have been my incentive? The end of the world isn’t so bad. In many ways it’s reassuringly familiar. There’s just less of it. Depleted stocks of chart CDs, at their everything-must-go price still a third more expensive than those in the supermarket across the road. DVDs whose own mother couldn’t love them literally trampled underfoot. A lone stuffed elephant on a bare shelf, his PRESS ME more desperate than inviting. I’d have taken him home, but he bore no price and had a foolish face. Instead, I pressed him a couple of times. His tinny trumpet obliged weakly. I said my goodbyes to the elephant and padded back over the worthless DVDs towards the door. Back to where everything is still just tickety-boo.