Discounts galore, but the bio and gluten-free (no idea what that means) products had been flown in from the USA, at prices so high that these shelves would never have to be re-stocked. Yet, fighting gamely through the crowds, who were crashing trolleys, as they do cars, barging people aside, idling gormlessly, on phones, crowding the candy and potato chip sections, I did discover some pleasant surprises from home, such as Oxo, Colman’s English mustard, and Branston pickle. Yippee!
This was certainly the most exhilarating event in the history of the municipality and the desert in general, other than when a welder did his welding too close to a gas cylinder, sparks flying, and the subsequent explosion sent the roof speeding off on a one way trip into space, closely followed by five unfortunate Indians and a Saudi supervisor snoozing at his desk. Regrettably, none of them returned to earth, not even the roof.
In a dramatic build-up, reminiscent of the Olympic opening ceremony in Hackney, powerful spotlights swept across the sky, inviting us in, and, man, did we do that! By 5pm the queue at the customer complaints desk was getting longer and longer, the manager was sweating in the coldest Middle Eastern winter for years, the microchips in tills overloaded and only cash was being accepted. Back to the souk.
There stood a solitary man on the delicatessen counter, in a red baseball cap and apron, who bravely ignored patrons’ loud demands as he chatted on his mobile phone, even laughing brazenly at a lady asking for cheese.
“Nuts, sir?” a Bangladeshi asked me as I perused his wares.
“Sorry?”
“I have lovely nuts, sir. Do you want to buy them?”
That was one of varied and dubious offers on offer.
As I wandered home, it dawned on me that it truly is a sad and sorry state of affairs when what you’re looking forward to at the end of the day is a tin of freaking grapefruit.