Tonight you begin in the frozen foods aisle. Last night it was fruit and veg, and tomorrow it will be the delicatessen or toiletries. Better to mix things up a bit, keep everything fresh. Routine, you have learned, is the enemy of the insomniac's early hours shopping experience.
Countless items slip through your hands and land in your trolley as you move with expertly feigned purpose through the vast, hanger-like structure that appeared, as if from nowhere, on the north edge of town last January. At first you swore you'd never set foot in the place, telling anyone who'd listen that it was a terrible, small-business-destroying monstrosity. But that was then. Just look at you now. Night after night you come here to kill your sleepless hours, filling your trolley with things you not only do not need, but also have no intention of purchasing. Funny how life has a way of making you eschew even your mostly deeply-held principles.
Amongst other things, you have come to admire the orderliness and sterility of this place, the only twenty-four-hour supermarket in the area. There was a time, not so long ago, when you did the bulk of your weekly shop in the somewhat cramped and chaotic surroundings of the family-owned store at the end of your road. But that was when you still had people to feed. Now it's just you, you make do with microwave meals delivered to your door by an amiable Polish man named Marek who reminds you of an actor whose name you have forgotten.
To read the full piece by Nick Ryle Wright buy a copy of issue #1 - available in the shop now.