Sunday, 15 July 2012

Friday night at the chippy

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.

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