Peter Farrington goes to Makro Unto the breach Familiar Flo went to great lengths to provide details of how the members cards had changed due to A new system you see. Peter casually asked when this revolutionary and astoundingly interesting system was born. Stop being facetious. Flo perked up and chirped March hun Hun ? Bloody hun ? Peter might have formed a passing relationship with Klaus but he was hardly a hun. Even if he was there was no need for this impertinence. Surely? Flo swapped cards and handed Peter a new, shiny one which he was required to sign In ballpoint babe there and then. Babe? Peters teeth were grinding together now. Hard. Really hard. He deployed the scowl, being careful to aim it right in Flos face. He studied her dyed hair, her vulgar earrings and tacky rings. As Peter is prone to do, he played a tune in his head Aye tiddly aye tigh ... salt fish Fishwife Flo. It all added up. Peter took his card, kick started the GTE and set off into the cavernous Makro wonderland. Muttering. Riff raff. Bloody riff raff he told himself. Hun. Unforgiveable. His spirits lifted at the sight of Shop soiled mattreses stacked vertically against a wall. Behind the tills to entice the impulsive purchaser maybe? Was it good for the springs to be stacked like that? Do they even have springs? Damn - Springtime for Hitler began playing in hus head. Then, Max Bygraves .. Its Spring again .... etc. Peter spent his whole life doing one thing and thinking another. It wasnt always easy. Nor welcome. He composed himself and remembered why he was there. Catering. Paper plates. They were easy enough although he probably has 200 too many. Serviettes next. One of Peters favourite words. Serviette. A pretentious creation intended to rival napkins across 1970s suburbia. Would Duncan Bannatyne invest in Peters range of multicoloured plastic serviette rings ? Who knows? Beige was chosen and then onto cutlery. One thousand plastic forks. Peter wanted 30. Peter wanted white ones. Not black, maroon, silver or blue. White. He wanted knives. Why cant they have knives, forks and spoons in one bag and in modest numbers? He gave up. Coffee next. Peter has a dim view of coffee. If is too continental for his liking. He recognised one that Mrs F bought once so got that. Tea was wasy. PG Tips. Back in 1972, Peter was an avid collector of PG Tips cards. The Saga Of Ships. Race Into Space, The History Of The Motor Car and so on. PG Tips is a lifelong passion. Peter pondered peanuts and then considered crisps. Difficult choices. Just then, he remembered another feature of Makro just as it came into view. The big fat Manc. Peter has never been to Makro withouf crossing paths with one. Here it was. With its wife. Twenty one stones wrapped up in a massive black t shirt. The back was tucked into the light grey Lonsdale jogging bottoms while the creased front hung over the drawstring of his pantaloons. Hi Tec trainers in cream and red. Like a Southport lampost. A copper bangle. A pirates earring. Mullet hairstyle. Dyed dark brown. His wife was pushing a box coupe GT which does require a pound. In it was a bag of 1000 forks. No knives. They were nattering away to eachother. Ooh eck this, Eh up that. The Irwell drone. Wayne and Waynetta. Peter opened the throttle of the GTE and powered past them, along the aisle and towards the beer. What will he encounter along the way?
Posted on: Tue, 23 Sep 2014 20:30:17 +0000
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