NEWSLETTER

Back in to the supermarket. More confident than ever. I have got no reason to be ashamed. I did not steal anything.

The security man is behind his lectern, watching CCTV, his shadowed face beneath the stiff blue cap. I pick up one of the baskets that are piled up next to him. I spend time in front of the gala melons, where he can see me, luxuriantly sniffing each one, weighing them up, shaking my head, disappointed. I toy with the ripe ‘n’ ready avocados; they are grenades in my hand. I look toward the security man. He is still not interested.

Back at the cold meats, the black girl smiles as I approach. I have all this empathy for her. To go through your life and have people assume the worst. They expect you to become a hateful person, but you will not let it happen.

“Hey, how are you?” I ask.

“I’m good.” She looks at her digital watch. “Not long to go now.”

Every day we awake limitless, unable to comprehend our own potential. It is now five past five.

“What time do you finish?”

I’m going off-script.

“Still got a little while yet,” she says. She puts one hand in the front pocket of her blue and white striped apron.

She is worried that I will be waiting for her in the loading bay when she finishes work. This is not her fault. She doesn’t know who I am.

“So what can I get you?” she says.

The sensation of choice, without the choice: herbed burgers, divided by greaseproof discs, pork loins, chops, fillets, sausages in sixes, chipolatas, beef rumps, brisket tied with string, rissoles, pastrami, sandwich ham with a smiley face running through it like the lettering in a stick of rock.

I’m going to make a point.

“What would you choose if you were me?”

She laughs at this.

“I don’t know,” she says.

She’s wearing a kind-of sailor’s hat.

“You do know,” I say.

I’m getting a little strange. I’ve got nothing to hide.

“It’s okay. Have a guess,” I say.

She’s blinking at me.

In the stretched reflection in the counter, I see that there’s a man standing behind me, waiting to get served.

“I think chicken kebabs are nice,” she says. Chunks of chicken, skewered with red onion, yellow pepper and mushroom. “Maybe you’d like some of them?”

“Okay. You saw that I just bought some chicken. But, if you were me, what would you go for?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Please. I think you do.”

Her eyes flick to the man behind me.

“I think… you’d like…” She gazes absently back and forth across the meat counter. She sounds unsure. “…Some lamb noisettes with apricot stuffing?”

“Absolutely right,” I say, nodding.

She is astonished by our synthesis. I imagine her leaving work and walking a different way home. She can achieve anything.

“I’ll take a handful.”

She puts a plastic bag over her hand and reaches in. The noisettes are right down at the front, by the glass. Her bare forearm like an eel in a tank.


At the bakery, I put a granary loaf in my basket and I pick up a custard and raspberry jam Danish. In full view of the lady stacking pitta bread, I take a confident bite. There’s a CCTV camera on the ceiling above me, hidden behind a tinted glass dome. I walk back down through the vegetables and take another relaxed bite. I am utterly guiltless. I am buying four noisettes.

In poker, when you’re upset and you are making poor decisions, they say that you’re on tilt.

I put a globe artichoke and some unwashed spinach in my basket. There are crumbs from the Danish on my jumper.

I ask a shelf-stacker in the toiletries aisle: “Where can I find some pressed apple and mango juice?”

He walks me all the way to aisle sixteen. He is young, maybe sixteen, and quite good looking. As we make the journey, I take a large bite of the Danish.

“Here you are,” he says.

“Brilliant,” I say.

I have maybe two bites of my Danish left. One of pastry, one of custard.

I put the juice in my basket.

I start making my way towards till eighteen. Even now, there’s hardly any queue. That girl’s a robot. She’s got an innate feel for where each barcode is positioned. And if a product’s not scanning, she knows when to give up and just type in the serial number. She doesn’t let pride affect her judgement. If it’s not scanning, then maybe there was a printing error. She does not blame herself. She knows when to take it on the chin and call up the supervisor for a price check. No shame in a price check.

I stand behind a mother and son. The boy’s sat in the trolley’s baby seat, although he’s possibly too old, whatever that means. He’s facing backwards, looking at me with my Danish in one hand and my basket in the other. His mum’s bagging up and putting the bags back in the trolley.

On the conveyor belt, there’s a four-pack of baked beans, air-sealed smoked haddock, own brand fish fingers, a twelve-pack of Um Bongo, two lemons, a set of ten triple-A batteries a six-pack of slim-line tonic cans, a dozen eggs, two packs – on offer – of butcher’s choice sausages, a couple of leeks, loose, a bag of washed Italian salad leaves, Mini-Wheats, Coco Pops and Special K.

The till girl – her name is Alice – is speeding through the items on the conveyor belt, both hands in perfect synchronicity, letting each product slide down the incline toward the packing area.

The boy’s bouncing his heels against the back of the trolley, making a clanging sound. I make eye contact with the boy as I take my penultimate bite of the Danish. Only custard remains: a little yellow hexagon. I look over at the Security Man. He is not at his lectern. I can feel the crumbs at the edge of my mouth. The beeping of Alice’s till matches my heartbeat. I lift the hexagon to my lips. The boy stops kicking his heels against the trolley.

At this point, I could still be planning to pay for it. I could tell Alice: Hey Alice, one more thing, there’s a Danish in my stomach I haven’t paid for.

I place the hexagon on my tongue. I saved the best bit for last. I’m chewing on it. My heart is running: sugar and danger. I will not stand for prejudice.

Alice’s helping the mother to bag up.

I wonder how difficult it would be to remain perpetually hungry, without actually starving. Never allowing myself to feel sated, always teasing, keeping my focus, a handful of cashews, half a sandwich. The boy is watching me. His mother is paying by card. I can see her pin number. 6643. This could be the start of my new career. Her leather shoulder bag is not zipped up. There’s a cash machine at the garage over the road. I could make a decision.


I haven’t even unpacked my basket yet. It’s still in my hand. The conveyor belt is just rolling forward but with nothing on it. I start to unpack my stuff. I only have five items.

“Hello there,” Alice says, sliding my food over the bar code reader. She’s a machine.

“Hi,” I say.

She’s already done.

“Nine pounds and thirty-six pence please.”

I have never stolen anything before.

I give Alice a tenner.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, and as I speak I feel some crumbs fall from around my mouth.

“Here’s your receipt.”

I walk slowly along the tills: plastic bag in one hand, receipt in the other. In this distance, I see the security man by the exit. He is talking to another security man. Seventeen, sixteen. This other security man is black. They are not laughing. For weight distribution, I should have split my items into two bags. I feel slightly lopsided, a bit limpy, like the end of Usual Suspects. Fourteen, thirteen. They suspected I was a thief at first, and then they found out that I wasn’t smart enough to be a thief, I was just this dumb cripple, eating yoghurt on the pavement. I’m actually doing a bit of a limp now. It’s funny. Eleven, ten. I keep my left hand – the receipt hand – curled at a weird angle like I’m hiding something. They can’t possibly suspect me again. It’s double jeopardy. Eight, seven. They’re staring at nothing. They’re chatting away. Probably discussing the positioning of the CCTV cameras. Six, five. A man with a trolley pulls out in front of me. He is talking on his mobile. I’m leaving Sainsbury’s, he says. Four, three. I can see that the black security man has a classic black man’s face. My abstract idea of a black man’s face. The short, curly hair. The broad nose. Two, one. The man on the phone says, I’ve got everything. I limp toward the security men, swinging my shopping, crumbs on my jumper. They’re standing next to the exit. I shake out my leg as I pass them. I have become something new. I swap the shopping bag from my right to hand to my left.

As I step out in to the sunshine, food in a bag, stomach aching, I overhear some of their conversation. It’s the black man speaking.

“…nineteen-seventy-seven was the year that punk rock died…”.


MY APPETITE | 1 | 2 |

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