I’m in the supermarket, leaning into the chiller, and I glance right and catch the eye, bloodshot and baleful, of some scruffy misanthrope, leaning in and looking left, some weirdo, yolk-stained, sweat-scented oddball, Unabomber, fulminating muttered genocide through cracked and panicked lips. I break away from the terrible kinship in his wild and harrowed face, thinking, “Uh-oh. Best keep my eyes on the ground or else he’ll have me pinned against a wall, complicit in his ranting diatribes against the Jews or immigrants.”
And then I realised that the chiller’s ends were mirrored…
It’s the bloody cardigan my sister-in-law knitted for me. I love it, but it doesn’t half make me look peculiar.