A very "special" offer from Asda

I went to my local Asda a couple of Saturdays ago. They have some rather nice "Mangal" spice mixtures. There were 4 or 5 large red & yellow labels along the front of the shelf proclaiming "48p each, 3 for £2!" Eventually I found an assistant who looked like her IQ was into double digits. After a few minutes intense pondering, she agreed that it wasn't a great bargain, and removed all the labels. I went back a week later. Not only had 3 of the labels been replaced, but they were interspersed with a second offer - "48p each, 2 for £1!" I can't make up my mind whether I'd like to meet the person who put up those labels or not. I suppose it could be quite interesting in a scientific, natural-history kind of way. On the other hand, I find it hard to handle the knowledge that I share the planet with people like this. But what really bothers me is the thought that the manager who authorised those labels to be displayed probably earns twice as much as I do.

Organic veg

I get a box of organic fruit & veg delivered every Saturday morning from www.riverford.co.uk. Even though I've paid for it, of course, it still feels like a gift from Heaven. Like most people I've lost all connection with the earth. I've never owned a garden or grown my own food. I work in an office and I get there on tarmac cyclepaths & roads. But when my veg box arrives I'm reminded of what food really is - the produce of living organisms, growing out of the soil, the "dirt", the waste and decaying compost, dead & discarded by animals like us. It comes back to me, transformed into healthy, nutritious, life-giving and tasty food. I want to fall on my knees and give thanks.

First trip on night bus

A rainy Saturday night. I'm struggling down the Gloucester Road in a downpour, trying to hold my umbrella in place with one arm in a gale while simultaneously eating a bag of chips. It's not easy. One minute I'm alert and focussed, avoiding puddles, drunken teenagers and other obstacles, sidestepping obstructions with a dexterity that belies the four pints slopping around inside my nervous system. A moment later I'm in a daze, miles away inside a little coccoon - just my chips and my umbrella. The outside world is a different planet.

I get to the Centre in good time for my first experience of the Night Bus, the first one at midnight. It's on time. I expect a vehicle full of rowdy yobs shouting abuse, threatening each other and puking on the floor. But there's just a handful of people like me - tired, sedate, and looking forward to getting home. At the front are two massive black guys, each the size of a house. Big round beaming faces with wide toothy grins. They're wearing fluorescent yellow tabards emblazoned with the words "Bus Marshal". They have nothing to do but pull each other's leg. I'm surprised to find the fare has gone up to £2.50 and I wonder if it might still have been £2.00 if we only had one marshal.

The nearest stop to my house is still a couple of miles away and I'm only vaguely aware of the route. As I contemplate the soggy trek, the beaming black grins both wish me good night and I leave the bus with a pleasant warm feeling inside. I've saved myself £16 compared to the taxi fare. I'm glad the night buses run. As I think of some of the drunkards I sidestepped on the way to the bus stop, I'm glad about the two marshals too.