The Corner Shop

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On a deadline I am running to the corner shop. An interesting little outlet. He stands on his feet from dusk till dawn, but it’s not this what astounds me. It’s every time I enter, I discharge information about myself.  And amazingly he seems to know what I want prior to even asking.  Oh, your Rizzla, Vimto and Chocolate Biscuits. He suggests later I will be smoking Skunk, getting thirsty and munching coated biscuits. Like the vagabond who frantically rushed in demanding tin foil for cooking. As he leaves, dishevelled, the shopkeeper snaps: grimy bitch. Now he’s going to hit the crack pipe.

Now a resident lady boldly walks in.  She’s about 39. The shopkeeper is acquainted with her too. Its your time of the month isn’t it? Would you like the pads with the wings? Fuck off, she responds. Just give me my cigarettes you nosey bastard! 20 Menthol! Exactly. Now the problem is I have a date patiently waiting at home, but I don’t want to ask for condoms and Blossom Hill wine at this moment time for he will probably say:

You know drinking is against Islam, but you’re going to get smashed then perform “jiggy jiggy”.  Chit chat meanders, each second precious, so I interrupt and ask for Durex and pay for the wine.  And expecting the verbal onslaught I wait but it’s almost 10 pm. A prostitute staggers in with high heels and red tights and she is angry. Her make up is smudged and blackened. Her perfume a rotting lemon sharp. Where’s my fucking money, she shouts at the shopkeeper? What money, he replied looking sheepishly as I look into her blouse. Her pouted breasts, large and uncared for  has a nipple peering at me as she stares at him.  I will fucking blow you up, she shouts. I take this wonderful opportunity to flee from the corner shop.

A prostitute in Stockholm in Sweden

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