Supermarket Relativism

Popped to the supermarket last night for a few top-up supplies. You'd think we were expecting a nuclear war the shelves are so empty. Shoppers are panic buying and stocking up their Christmas bunkers. My well trodden route past the fish counter and bakery led me to a bread aisle lined with barren shelves. I struck lucky in the mad rush for the last surviving loaf, a shrunken oat-bread affair almost small enough to swallow in one huge bite; then almost missed out on my bag of salad leaves, having to grab for the second last pack.

There are benefits at this time of year mind you - two whole aisles full of chocolate goodies.

Counting 15 things in my basket, a cold hearted assistant rejected me from the "10 items or less" express check out queue, sending me off to stand behind trolleys stacked as high as miniature mountains. Quite mean, don't you think? Feeling quite vengeful, I broke open a pack of Kit-Kats and munched off the minutes while checking my list of milk, bread, yoghurt, leaves and chocolate. I felt like a little basket of annoyance, wedged between families busily unloading supplies.

Now you may have counted my listed basket contents and be wondering how it could total 15 items. Well you see, with two aisles of choccy goodies I couldn't stop at just one pack of Kit-Kats now could I?

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The next few days will likely be fraught so I'm not sure how much posting will be done. I will try to report on the Christmas day catering challenge though.

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Meanwhile my head has been buzzing, wound up so tight it feels ready to explode. With thoughts of what to cook, you ask? Where to buy the last few missing gifts?
No.
I've been frantically wrestling with an internal debate involving individual rights, moral relativism and whether society has a moral obligation to legitimize sex as a marketable service. This isn't in response to the recent murders of five women in Suffolk, but is something I've been mulling for a while. In fact since reading this item which presents one argument for sex working.

You know, this Christmas there's an urge to go celebrate one final time with some friendly lemmings.

Listening to: incessant storms of static inside my head.