I like old people. I really do. Some of my best friends are old people. I even plan to be one myself one day. And of course I will expect to be afforded the appropriate amount of respect due to my advanced years. That’s only right and proper.
In return, I shall make sure that I give consideration to people younger than I am. People in full time employment, for example. People with young families. People whose only opportunity to indulge in the retail experience falls at the weekends.
In short, old people, get the hell out of Tesco on Saturday and Sunday. You have five days to stop suddenly in the middle of the aisles, have endless debates about which shape of potato to buy, which breakfast cereal the grandchildren like best, or how things don’t taste the same since they did away with brown paper bags.
I’d love to care. Really I would. But I don’t.
To do so I would have to be completely off my trolley.
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