unsubtly placed packages of meat. The objectified skin of our impoverished reality. O god how the meat aisle always fascinated and frightened me. When I see those hunks of flesh, when I see the glittering fridges of cheese! Pornography of the packaged-up, the slick and plastic. Capitalism red in tooth, claw and sticky label! A farmer once dragged a cow through the local supermarket in protest of milk prices. I saw a child literally kick cans of soup until they all fell down, almost on his head. I dropped a bottle of wine and it shattered like a prized ruby. Someone did a somersault; I used to glide with the trolley instead of pushing it. When homesick, the act of doing a food shop offers a sense of homecoming. Return. You are bringing in the goods; a primitive element activates in the brain and like a good huntergatherer, the serotonin kick at the checkouts is the true reward for serving yourself and others. Buy food for your family, your flatmates. I have these cookies; I bought several. One for me, one for you. If you do not take a cookie, three fairies will perish on the next full moon. Do you want that on your conscience, do you? We once had a game. You had to collect the most expensive receipt. Bin-raiding was like freeganism except we had no interest in the goods, just the textual evidence of said goods’ purchase. It was an intervention in the one-way exchange. We wanted a token, artefact; to vicariously experience another person’s momentary indulgence. Such narratives to be constructed from a receipt! Eggs, discount razors, organic plums (O how very William Carlos Williams!), wholewheat seeded loaf, fake butter, spring onions, pink lipstick, assorted tampons, Weetabix, headache capsules, poppy seeds, oven chips, drain cleaner, cat food; a true Latourian litany. The levelling of
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