If I were to make the joke that the convenience store below my apartment building was not very convenient (on account of them not opening on a Sunday), I would not be funny. If you find that funny, then great. Thank you. But this is not funny. In my first week at living at this new apartment, I found my way down to aforementioned inconvenience store. Four isles. Tampons, cereal, internet café, I-don’t-remember.

I wandered around as much as one can in such a shop. Do you have bread? I asked, as though I was asking for anise-flavoured condoms. “Uh, noooo, only in these sandwiches”. The lovely lady said as she idiotically waved her hand toward the sandwiches fridge. I will not be buying 8 sandwiches in order to get 16 slices of bread and a lot of leftover corned beef. But props to her for the cross-sell attempt.

This was a month or so ago; I’ve settled in my new home now. I have not been back, except for just now. I was after lemonade. I challenge you: spend the rest of your life if you care or dare. Find a ‘convenience’ store (in inverted commas, forevermore) that does not sell it. ‘We have mountain dew’: a consolation. I care little for your mountain dew, wench.

I mumbled something about Moses selling out and left.


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