[This post is part 3 of an ongoing (and, naturally, quite riveting) series. Here are parts 1 and 2.]
So. Having resolved to get slimmer for summer, my next task was to purchase the wherewithal so to do. A task I set about with childlike glee, you may believe.
My first port of call? The Co-operative Supermarket, Summertown, Oxford.
Argh! God! They weren't lying about the 10 tasty varieties. It's enough to make a budding slimmer begin to panic. Cripes!
But wait! Maybe this gentleman will be able to advise me. He looks like a kindred spirit:
... actually, no, on second thoughts: he seems to be halfway through shoplifting a box of Coco Pops. LOOK AWAY QUICKLY.
To my left, meanwhile, a pleasant couple seemed to be having the kind of cheery Oxonian conversation it seems e'er my lot to overhear. I think I decided I'd better make my choice quickly when wifey started calling hubby a 'twat'. Didn't want to be playing the gooseberry, after all.
So, hurried, flustered and, discombobulated by the array of options (sorry, varieties), I confess that I took the easy way out and plumped (I choose my verb, you may believe, with care) for the normal, plain variety (I prefer to think of it as 'Classic') – and made my way checkoutwards.
So, picture me, minutes later, as I stride (decorous – if portly – gentleman in business attire), a box of Special K casually tucked under one arm, a pint of milk (full-cream, naturally) dangling with confident nonchalance from one pudgy finger. As metrosexual as you like. The folk of Summertown stopped to see me pass. I noticed a few chaps unable quite to conceal their expressions of grudging admiration, I fancy.
And quite right, too.
For now –– THE HOOLIGAN IS PREPARED.