Sad Sunday.


There are few things bleaker than buying scourers in Wilkinson, five minutes before it closes on a Sunday, while Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game plays over the Tannoy.

Actually, I can think of one situation that's more dismal: trying to get to sleep while a neighbour throws a late-night party in the flat above; leading his friends in a singsong of Chris Issak’s Wicked Game on his acoustic.

(The paragraphs above were based on true stories.)

Wilkinson's a difficult place to stomach at the best of times (there goes the chance to appear in one of their adverts). The shop floor lighting doesn’t help as it sets off my Labyrinthitis, which is appropriate, as the aisles seem to get narrower and more maze-like, the longer I stay there. I also find it irritating that ‘Wilko’ is now it’s official name; Can't they let us choose our colloquialisms by ourselves? What are we supposed to shorten their name to now? "Wilk?"

(That just makes me think of Emmerdale.)

While Wilkinson has become the bastion of High Street convenience ever since the demise of Woolworth’s, they can still be taken to task. A while back, I saw a ‘Love Cage’ for sale in my local branch. 


What better medium to express your affection than in mesh? Also, the staff member who asked, “Can I help everyone?” from behind the counter the other week was too ambitious.

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