Instead of a tremendous fuss we shared a sandwich. The straighten-up machine looked at me like finally, what fucking took you so long. And I thought that's odd because your function is to always have the answers. And here you are emitting surprise and pungent relief. Maybe you want oil.
We crunched and gulped and wondered at each other whether it's the better standard of graphic design on the packaging or a genuine improvement in the quality of the fillings that has led to the furtive ballooning of our appreciation of the Tesco meal deal. A combination of the two didn't occur to us. I put my empty bag in its hatch.
It sniggered. All the straightening-up I'd never got round to. Jesus. And with all my training as well. But now.
Somewhere a swamp hog claps its trotters.
While it glockenspieled my vertebrae I thought about the man I used to think I was going to be. The sudden lack of a depthless future exploded in my wardrobe. The machine said the problem with most people is they're not hardcore. I told it to get its tickling implements away from my fancies. The real problem is I don't know how to recalibrate. There's only one button besides the on-off switch and I'm still unsure what it does, although I press it more than a few times a day and believe there must be a consequence.