In an East End Town, a Dead End World
There's a giant Sainsbury's supermarket by Whitechapel. Since it's on my way home, I decide to drop by and purchase a few things. I'm in the pizza aisle when an announcement comes on telling us to remain where we are. Everyone stops for a brief moment, looks at their neighbour, then continues to wander around. The staff look as bewildered as the shoppers. The recorded voice message is on repeat, telling us to stay put.
I'm getting near the shampoo aisle when the message changes to a fire alarm. It's loud, interspeared with a message telling everyone to evacuate. I shove my basket above the nappies and head towards the exit. There's only about ten other people doing the same; everyone else stands around with a mild look of if-there-is-no-fire-I'm-gonna-keep-shopping. The staff have congregated by the door; they lift their shoulders and shake their heads to the few people who ask what's going on. It reminds me of an experiment I once saw on TV, where a man sat in a room filling job applications, little knowing that the other people with him were actors. When the room began to fill up with smoke, the actors didn't budge, kept on writing their applications as if there was nothing wrong. So the guy did the same, against his instinct to run away. The need to shop overrules the need to survive (for some.)
Sissy Jen called us last night with the news that she found a worm in her Tesco salad bag. She had just poured some dressing on her plate, so it was hard taking photos for evidence that distinguished the worm from the creamy sauce.
After Sainsbury's, I walk towards Bethnal Green Road. A beautiful black-haired young man comes out of the fire station's garage, spits on the asphalt, then strides like John Wayne to a payphone. One block away, a red double-decker bus rolls down the road, a big sign for the Respect political party hanging from it, Gloria Gaynor's Aretha Franklin classic track blasting through speakers: I'm about to give you all of my money, all I ask of you in return honey, is to give me a lil' Respect (just a little).
A car with young asian boys honks at the bus, and when the Respect members wave back at them the boys stick their arms out of the car and give them the middle-finger.
I'm getting near the shampoo aisle when the message changes to a fire alarm. It's loud, interspeared with a message telling everyone to evacuate. I shove my basket above the nappies and head towards the exit. There's only about ten other people doing the same; everyone else stands around with a mild look of if-there-is-no-fire-I'm-gonna-keep-shopping. The staff have congregated by the door; they lift their shoulders and shake their heads to the few people who ask what's going on. It reminds me of an experiment I once saw on TV, where a man sat in a room filling job applications, little knowing that the other people with him were actors. When the room began to fill up with smoke, the actors didn't budge, kept on writing their applications as if there was nothing wrong. So the guy did the same, against his instinct to run away. The need to shop overrules the need to survive (for some.)
Sissy Jen called us last night with the news that she found a worm in her Tesco salad bag. She had just poured some dressing on her plate, so it was hard taking photos for evidence that distinguished the worm from the creamy sauce.
After Sainsbury's, I walk towards Bethnal Green Road. A beautiful black-haired young man comes out of the fire station's garage, spits on the asphalt, then strides like John Wayne to a payphone. One block away, a red double-decker bus rolls down the road, a big sign for the Respect political party hanging from it, Gloria Gaynor's Aretha Franklin classic track blasting through speakers: I'm about to give you all of my money, all I ask of you in return honey, is to give me a lil' Respect (just a little).
A car with young asian boys honks at the bus, and when the Respect members wave back at them the boys stick their arms out of the car and give them the middle-finger.