KOOL-AID: trip to the village

Hit the Kool-Aid menu for previous posts

Cannot believe I ran out of cigarettes. Well. Can. Because I did. Had that panic I remember getting when me and him ran out of drugs. The absolute horrifying panic of being sober. No, no, no, no. Did not want to feel normal again. Did not want all the shit in my head to come out from under the drug-duvet. Well, okay, was not that bad, but bad enough. Cigarettes is all I have. And you can’t fucking order them online, which is shite. So had no choice. Walked down to village hoping that 1) village shop would be open, 2) they sold cigarettes and 3) they took bank cards.

Fuck me drunk, that place.

Looks like the kind of shop you see on The Walking Dead (current binge show) which hasn’t been open since the zombie apocalypse and has been long-stripped of all useful goods.

Has one of those old-fashioned bells on the door. The one that strikes fear into your heart when you hear it. Fuck. Here comes the murderer. That kind of thing.

Extremely dark inside. Owner of village shop not a fan of bright fluorescent lighting.

By the door there is one of those old bread trolley shelf things. On wheels. But this one is all rusted and bare, apart from one single loaf of bread which may or may not have been out of date.

On the shelves there was a variety of mismatched cars. Different types of beans, mostly. A packet of Hob Nobs, packet of Digestives. Guess you’re one or the other.

Almost didn’t notice the lady behind the counter. She just kind of blended into the background. Olive green walls, olive green pinny. She was staring at me with suspicion. Mousy grey eyes wondering who the fuck I was, and hating herself for not knowing.

She had glasses on a chain around her neck, and had to put them on to read the note on my screen I put in front of her.

‘Don’t think I have a carton of those,’ she said. ‘You can’t talk then?’

Shook head. No, no. No talking. Typed on phone: would have all cigarettes she had. All.

Ended up with three cartons worth, all different varieties. A lucky dip of cigarettes.

Shop lady bagged them up in what was clearly a second-hand bag. But could not care less — just wanted out of there. Got to door, opened it. Made the ridiculous tinkling sound. Shop lady spoke.
‘You’d be the one living in the gatehouse then. Interesting, that is.’

Couldn’t even rebuke it. Am topic of gossip. And why is it interesting?

Although, when I think about it, back in the day, Landlord’s home would have lorded it over the village folk. Maybe even literally. Back then there probably would have been a ‘us and them’ mentality. Guess it’s still that way for some folks.

All for cigarettes. Was worth it.

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