Sore feet

WE VISIT the recently opened branch of Sainsbury’s on the site of Morecambe’s old football ground at Christie Park.

It strikes me right away as a poor choice of location for a supermarket: the place is cavernous, with wide aisles and what seems like endless rows of shelves in which one can so easily get lost and bewildered.

We only have about half a dozen items to buy but they take nearly an hour to locate in this overly-spaced and unfamiliar environment.

I seem to do a lot of walking today, I’m not sorry to get home and sit down over a nice cup of tea.

Evening. It’s my turn to be chief cook and bottle-washer today, so I set about making us a leftover beef curry.

The kitchen worktop seems covered in a variety of jars and containers, and I feel like an alchemist mixing up my concoction of spices.

It all has to plop away for a good hour and the aromas only serve to make My Good Lady and I even more ready to taste to result.

And very good it is too, though I say so myself.

Reflecting on our shop, though, we decide to revert to our regular supermarket, if only to spare my poor old sore feet!