Bequeathed two large, 640ml bottles of Tiger beer, a good deal at £4 for two we left the shop, not aware of the disaster before us. They swung in their carrier bag as we moved over the high street, in the partly cloudy, noon sun. Added to them was another bag of vegetables, whatnots and berries. I stood in front of the bakery and was transfixed by the scent and appearance of donuts and thought that maybe they were cream filled rather than saccharine, low grade, twice baked jam. The reddish evidence of jam not visible from my vantage point, filled me with hope as they, perchance, cream.
Fumbling in my grey weird man bag containing a lithium ion battery, headphones, a folding 5V charge adapter, glyceryl trinitrate spray, cables and my hope of a pound coin. As my fumbles gathered, fingers disappeared from under the plastic bag of amber and their collision with the pavement issued pops akin to dual cranium, windscreen impacts, foaming memories not enjoyed released with broaches of broken glass onto the dry ground. Regret inversely filling me as the bottles emptied.
Going to have them delivered next time, a case.
You will find more statistics at Statista
My activities of the last few months have lacked the gradients of excitement and abyss which promotes the creation of marks in this space. Instead I have been working on a project with the dull diligence of a metronome. It seems very exciting to me, this project. Hopefully it has legs.