Hobsons Choice.

When I was a footloose and fancy free teenager with a rather unhealthy interest in all things kleenex, I lived for a spell with both parents. These days are etched in memory, not purely because of the dysfunctional nature of our nuclear lacking unit, but because mother was shit at cooking.

Although attempting the occasional gastronomic delight, edible home cooked scoff was about as likely as finding rocking horse shit, and instead of being exposed to a tasty,varied nutritious diet - we became regular patrons of the local supermarket and victims of the boil in the bag culture.

If etched in bitter recollection memory serves correct - Thursday was a particularly bad day.

Fish.

Pulrely conicidental religious connertations aside, this specific day heralded the 2 for 1 on fish in parsley sauce at the local tesco. Just what breed or part of 'fish' never became apparent, but the bitter sweet taste of that bloated, anemic tasteless symetrical mass of white rancid drool never came close to offering an answer.

I never blamed mum for her inept home-making skills you know.

Some people can. Others cant. Life.

So yes. At home those years ago myself and older sibling often travelled to the local village some 15 minutes walk from casa domestic. Come rain or shine, at least thrice a week, we stood unified in our quest for a taste sensation. With outstretched hands and noses pressed hard against the semi-steamed window - the local deli offered an array of unpronouncable yet mouth watering delicacies. Heralding from far away places, this tiny oasis offered an insight into what the world could offer.

Or so it appeared when confronted with the alternative.

'Thurstons' as it was known was in fact a rather large national chain, situated within a bland insipid building selling a piss poor selection of sausage rolls, pasties and gingerbread based produts. Situated directly adjacent to the then prospering general practitioner's a steady stream of familiar faces would regularly call in, collect something small and heavy, and then carry the sopping heap away to be consumed off site.

Happy days.

As time passes, and most become aware of mortality or frailty or both - visits to the Thurstons (which more recently became 'Gregs') of the world become less frequent. The rare times we visit we turn it into an occasion. The sort of friday moment where our thirst for sticky buns becomes less to do with flavour gratification and more to do with our regressive inner child.

Perhaps thats why the staff employed are always fucking old and saggy.

Today, I was popping along to a post office. Close by was a shop called 'Peters'. Although sporting a different name and logo - and situated in a different part of the country - it was a carbon copy of that 'Thurstons' from yesterday. With nose pressed once more the lay out was eerily similar. The same old trout incapable of smiling serving behind the same old glass fronted counter. The same cue of various customers. None smiling, no overt display of satisfaction or impending joy. Just the occasional guilt ridden glance up from highly polished shoes.

Anyway, the reason for this post is that the sausage roll was still fucking shit. The chocolate eclair passable.