We made our great escape from Stalag 17 and dashed to Morrison’s Supermarket to stock up on cheap plonk, check prices and observe the local Suffolk wildlife in its natural habitat. The place was packed. It may have been a Sunday but Brits have long since abandoned praying for paying on the Sabbath. Despite many protestations to the contrary, we found prices more than comparable with Turkey, particularly meat, staples and non-food essentials. While Liam stalked the aisles for bargains, I went in search of a decent newspaper. Morrison’s sold neither the Guardian nor the Independent so I made do with the murky Murdoch’s Times. The queue was fronted by a Suzi Quatro looky-likey, all feather cut, tight ribbed vest and rock-chick tattoos. Suzi was in a heated debate with the check-out assistant, something about a pot plant. I didn’t intrude. I didn’t fancy a volley of expletives from the girl from Devil Gate Drive. We fled back to our bunker to get drunk.
Hit it Suzi…
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