There are two hours and twenty minutes before I can go home, I see it stretched out before me like an eighteen lane motorway that has to be licked clean – broken glass swallowed, oil and diesel tasted in the blood of accidents. There are no customers to serve but the shop is full – a chunk of herd psychology – angry at the queues and spaces where the cheap beer should be. They scream, whinge and wet themselves with fingers trapped in the conveyor. They curse round chewing-gum cud but I am not there either.
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