I had a weekend job at a (since closed) supermarket in Reading, and being the new boy I was often sent out into the multi-storey car park to bring back the trollies. Worst job in the world, as the lifts stunk of piss and was once propositioned by a mad old granny, causing me to flee - FLEE! - for my very life.The only good thing it had going for it was that at 6pm every Friday night, you could stand on the roof of the car park and watch some bloke in the office block opposite shagging his cleaner over his desk.
BUT! My boss, the portly Mr Oliver, was a competitive sort, and his main competition was Sainsbury's round the corner. Sainsbury's was always packed, while our low-fi establishment was dying on its arse. But he had a plan, which he made clear to me on Saturday morning in a dark corner of the stock room:
"Scary lad - when you get the trollies today, I want you to do something else."
"What's that, Mr Oliver?"
"I want you to take every Sainsbury's trolley you can find, and hide the the bloody things"
"But..."
"Extra tenner."
I hid them in the private car park in the basement, where all the tramps slept. Our not-so-super-supermarket was closed within a year.
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