It could be any English town.
Friday night. The local fish and chip shop. The smell of vinegar and oil hangs heavy on the warm air. A red fluorescent sign, flashes on, off: “open”.
A steady movement of people in and out of the shop-front: a few families, a few women, but mostly a series of lone men, one after the other.
A family man, hurriedly picking up 4 potions of cod and 3 portions of chips to take home for Friday supper. Maybe he buys a cheeky chipolata to eat furtively in the car on the way home.
A young man buys a portion of chips, unwrapped, and smothers them in salt and vinegar. He eats them with a wooden fork, standing in the street outside. The flashing open sign casts an intermittent red light over the pavement. I think he's fortifying his stomach before a night of heavy drinking with his friends.
A middle aged man wraps his chips in brown paper to take home. Perhaps he lives alone, can't be bothered to cook. There's something sad about a lone portion of chips. The furtive chipolata.
It could be any English town.
No comments:
Post a Comment