Having bought my wife a new bathrobe (although
why she insists on wearing a robe in the bath
I’ll never know), I proceeded to Soft Furnishings.
Soft? Stupid, more like. However, I couldn’t resist
the chocolate teapot, with matching cups and saucers,
before taking the escalator to the Fourth Floor.
Lingering longer in Lingerie than was perhaps necessary
I was eventually moved on by the store detective,
whom I failed to recognize despite the steel helmet
with Store Detective painted on. So engrossed
was I in examining a pair of towelling tights to match
my wife’s new bathrobe, I hardly felt the heavy boot.
On my way out, the lady behind the Complaints counter
called me over. And did she go on. Moan, moan, moan,
one complaint after another. ‘If you don’t like working here,’
I said, ‘why not find another job? And before you go
maybe you could do something about those foul-mouthed
men swearing in the Menswear department.’
In search of White Goods I hitched a lift to the Basement
where I bought a linen handkerchief, a line of coke
and a stick of chalk, before popping up to Kitchenware
to buy a pop-up toaster. By the time I got home
I was sorely in need of a cup of tea and a slice of toast.
The chocolate tea set, however, proved to be a disaster.
Likewise the pop-up toaster. Whenever I switched
the thing on, it would pop up and down, up and down,
so that I couldn’t get the bread in, never mind toast it.
First thing next morning I returned to the store
with my bad goods to complain, only to find that
Moaning Minnie had taken my advice and quit.
Luckily, the Store Manager was more than helpful,
and not only exchanged the toaster for a DVD set
but threw in a giant plasma screen television,
as well as a Romanian girl off the perfume counter.
I thanked my uncle, and feeling a sudden craving,
headed for the Lighting department where I lit up.
The smoke alarm brought the armed-response unit
crashing in. Pinned to the floor, I explained that it was
only a poem, rather like a child’s essay which ends
‘I woke up, and it was only a dream.’ Failing to appreciate
the irony of this literary device they charged me
with wasting police time. Not to mention the reader’s.