Supermarket Comrades

The weekly trip to the supermarket is a prominent feature of my Saturdays. Today it was marked by meeting two comrades from the local Labour party - we were councillors together a good few years ago. The first encounter was in the fruit and vegetable section, where we exchanged a few comments about entertaining, cooking and the study of philosophy and logic. Logic to a backdrop of cucumbers and mushrooms.  All cucumbers are vegetables. I am a cucumber. Therefore I am a vegetable.

The second encounter was even more surreal. This was outside the store. I was pushing my trolley along the covered walkway towards where my car was parked - it would have been illogical to go in any other direction under the circumstances - and I heard a voice call my name from a little below me. My colleague was descending with her trolley on the de-escalator to the lower car park level - presumably, I deduced with impeccable logic, to where she had parked her car. We had a short and bizarre conversation as the vertical distance between us increased (from x to y in the helpful diagram below).

Monday Musings

It was a shock to the system this morning when my alarm sounded, dragging me out of a deep sleep at 07.00. Could it really be Monday morning already? What happened to the weekend?

Once I had absent-mindedly completed my morning rituals, then I started to feel better. In the end, it turned out to be a fairly easy day, dealing with the incoming emails as though they were ducks at a fairground. Except I didn't win a goldfish or plaster ornament.

Typically, after the uniform greyness of a monochromatic Sunday, today would have been a lovely day for photographs - bright sunshine, blue skies and some interesting clouds. At least there is the promise of Spring, even though we have plenty more cold days to get through according to recent weather alerts. And the drive home starts to be mostly in daylight now.

And so to the news of the day, with a skeletal theme. Firstly, the confirmation that the skeleton found under a car park in Leicester is indeed that of King Richard III. Secondly, the truth clatters like a skeleton out of Chris Huhn's cupboard as he admits to perverting the course of justice by persuading his then-wife to take the hit for a speeding fine. It would seem that his political career is also heading to the cemetery. So, one buried under a car park, one buried by a motoring offence. There is poetry everywhere if you look closely.