A LURKING HORROR

There is a bag of chips hiding on your path to work today, ready to ambush you with it's crispy crunchy goodness. Mmm, salt, grease, strange artificial flavour! This could be a horror film, with bad snacks become animate and murderous. The thing that crumbles into those fragments at the bottom of the bag that you must upend into your mouth or else.

Naturally I can mentally see a bus full of teenagers stranded on the moors.
The mind's eye, at five A.M., is a twisted thing.
What hue of chip awaits?

Along the road to work there are several restaurants that tempt the pensive man, who regrets that he never ate at the Spanish tapas place, the chicken wing hut, the east coast pizzeria, that joint with the high octane neon-hued cocktails, or the Afghani eatery which is relatively close to the apartment, whose food he has indeed had because we have had it to-go, but whenver I pass on the way home it always looks depressed and empty. Delivery wallahs probably it going. Have bagged snack in readiness, both for while you are waiting, and to strew over or next to that plate of Qabili Pilaf.

That load of teenage passengers in the middle of nowhere, probably Scotland, intrigues me. If they are American they will undoubtedly do something stupid to tempt the fates.
That's traditional.

It's also axiomatic. And what the European movei-going audience expects. A stalled vehicle, in a Midwestern cornfield or a far northern heath, with thug-like highschool football players and blonde girls, automatically suggests idiot behaviour that ends in monstrous disaster.

There was a bag of potato chips in the teevee room last night. There are shrimp chips in there this morning. She did say, before I went to bed, "you should try these, they're delicious!" I did not then, and it's a good thing that I am not a breakfast person.
I would be doomed. Greasy depravity, horrible appetites.



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