Trolley's hope has always been that it would have all gone out of business by now, and that the whiff of junky shit in the bushes that goes unnoticed by the locals would have been replaced by something altogether a lot nicer.
The arrogance of assumption has kept calm and carried on. The situation extant remains intact. The on-going static nature of the status quo inhabits the present moment in boots of concrete.
The past lies ahead of them. It is an open Scottish Highland road in a car advert. Their future stalks them from behind. It is a hidden, crouching social worker.
Melon is traditional. He's always considered Sunday trading anathema. Today, the plan is to get roasted and to consume as little as possible, smoking, drinking, and sniffing aside. He's on the Dog beer again. Despite Trolley's best attempts at offering advice, Melon has sank a quartet of the stuff.
"59p a bottle, Troll. Hardly worth stealing at that price."
Trolley wants to unburden himself of the curse of knowledge. Not all untruths are bad. If you're terminally ill, the God lie might be useful. Some live their entire lives in this state. Best of luck to them, thinks Trolley. But his Spanish head Anarchist is having none of it.
Hostia puta!
The gamekeeper has turned poacher, and the poacher's received a CBE. All is contained. But just because D.H.Lawrence has captured its primal force in a sentence doesn't mean it can't escape and tear your throat out. Even in Primark. Especially in Primark.
Compliance is so much melodrama. Authentic theatre has more to do with bowel movements and mucus. Trolley is working on a turd. Another half cup of hot tea and a suck on the can pipe. Cloth is touched, but a recalcitrant turtled-neck sweater is popping its head out. It doesn't fancy its chances. Bagged and binned or left to assimilate and rot in the bushes, its destiny is more or less secured.
Trolley and Melon, on the other hand...
They maintain tranquillity and continue. There're minefields of abandoned marketing to dredge through before they get anywhere. Melon lies down in the road and attempts to lick his own testicles through his baggy bottoms. He makes a move to remove them. This could be good. Luckily, nobody but nobody gives a fuck.
Primark is open as normal for a few more years yet. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.....
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