On the never-ending battle to provide
All the winter weather we've been experiencing lately has left me a little edgy. It is probably all to do with the short, cold days and the white stuff falling from the heavens awakening my primal hunter-gatherer instincts, forcing me to go out and scavenge for my family.
Of course, it's not proper winter weather, as it's hard to feel particularly hard done by when your entire town grinds to a halt under two inches of snow, most of which has melted by tea-time.
However, a strategically-placed snowflake on Friday morning completely blocked off all road access to Weymouth, to the point that no forty-ton trucks were able to get through in order to feed the starving masses for one whole day.
I discovered this on Saturday when I found myself wrestling a pensioner for the last organic carrot our branch of Morrisons had to offer, while an entrepreneur stood by the tills offering a pint of semi-skimmed for twenty of The Queen's Pounds.
As I pummelled away at the old boy's frankly redundant family jewels with my free arm, I asked myself the important question:
What the bloody hell does a pensioner want with organic carrots?
And why is he still vainly clinging on to the bag of loose shallots that I will most certainly need for the fine pensioner stew I have planned for later?
"Get to the tinned veg aisle where you belong", I told him, "before I poke you in the eye with the blunt part of your walking-frame and nick your Oxo cubes".
But no. He wouldn't listen, and now there's another suspicious mound of earth round the back of the industrial estate, and another invoice for a hundredweight of quicklime that's going to be tough to explain away.
Said too much.