I live in a small-ish village in west London. It's never exactly bustling. In fact I suspect nothing has ever bustled in Pinner. Yet, earlier, I ventured to my local supermarket for supplies as the cat food, of which I have plenty, was beginning to look strangely tasty.
Curiously, the shelves containing toilet paper and pasta were comfortingly full. Although there was bugger all on the rest of the shelves. Thus tonight I'll be eating toilet paper carbonara or be forced to delve into the freezer where I've discovered oodles of food. Unfortunately, most of it went out of date about five years ago. Still, if I eat something that's going to give me food poisoning, I'll have plenty of...
I'll stop there, poor taste; just as I suspect Cotonelle cannelloni would hardly be the most edifying of meals.
My new hero, Harold, for whom I had hoped so much, has had a relapse and is now in a place where escaping is as dangerous as remaining. I'll work it out, or my novel is going to be a novella.
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