Love is like a Corner Shop

Jean, from her settee, looked over at her husband Tony, circling a finger in his belly button, playfully. His threadbare jogging pants barely reached his swollen ankles, his purple face was pointed directly at the football match on the television and his other hand was clutching a can of Red Stripe. She sighed to herself before thinking about going into another room to do something, anything else. Before the thought reached her feet, she said, 'You know, my friend Emma's husband is like one of those big Tescos'.

Tony grunted then sniffed the finger which had been so elegantly stuffed into his navel. 'You know, the big ones with the Starbucks and a curtain alteration service? You go in there and they've always got everything you want. Lettuce, sauce, ice cream, loyalty, good conversation, pays attention when you're talking to him - that kind of thing.' Tony grunted once more then shifted his ample posterior slightly to the left, making himself everso slightly less likely to get up and do some housework. 'Sometimes,' Jean continued, 'there'll be something out of stock, like a sense of humour, but you know they'll get it back in again soon when they've gotten over their team losing at football.'

'He's useless', Tony muttered under his breath, apathetically lifting a finger towards the television screen.

'Indeed,' Jean countered, 'You know what you are?' Without waiting for nor expecting an answer, she continued, 'You're a corner shop. They've got most essentials but they're all off-brand and out of date. The vegetables in the dark at the back of the shop have all gone mouldy and soft, and there's no way you're ever putting any of them in your mouth. They only sell goats milk - it's similar to cows milk but you know there's something not right about it. You're the kind of corner shop that you go in and the assistant ignores you, even when you're standing right in front of them waving a jar of mayonnaise that might be ranch dressing or toothpaste, and you're asking them to clarify which.'

Tony took a long swig from his can, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, belched and then smiled to himself. 'You're not even a corner shop,' Jean said after thinking for a minute, 'You're one of those roadside oggy wagons that sell greasy breakfasts. Whenever you pass one and want to know whether the bedroom wall will ever get painted, the shutters are down and when it's finally open, you have to stand in a queue in the rain for twenty minutes. Then when you get to the front, the server looks at you like you just climbed off the roof and then serves you something that resembles a sausage but could be anything. You definitely don't trust it and you wish you were in a big Tescos.' Jean paused, noting that Tony's expression hadn't changed one iota during her tirade. 'In fact, you're like a scam website. It all looks legit, the pictures they use all look good - they lure you in and when the delivery turns up, it's a completely different product. It's not what you paid for at all. You ordered a man who looked after himself and looked after you - but instead, you got a dodgy i-phone charger which causes a fire the second you plug it in. They they won't answer your e-mails and you can't get a refund.'

Jean got to her feet, put her coat on and stood between her husband and the television. 'I'm leaving you', she said sternly and made for the front door.

'Yeah, two sugars, thanks love.'