Some day nah ah’m gonna week up to farnd me own hands turnin’ a shade of over-prahsed cucumber green with a little M appearin’ on me forehead.
‘Ruddy hell Hedley it ain’t thet bed,’ says Phil with the knee. ‘Ah know you’ve always hed a thing fer Benests but nothing lasts forever, eh? Good to hev a few more low cost aht-lets over yer, ain’t it?’
‘Low cost mah scented wellies!’ ah spet. ‘Don’t know baht you sheg but ah ain’t seein’ no reduction in prahses. Forget savin’ up fer Christmas; ah’ve got a jar of pennies et ’ome what ah’m hopin’ to put towards me next Scotch egg!’
‘Cos ah do love a good Scotch egg, see’ (or ‘fet man’s apple’ as mah old man used to call ’em).
‘But Hedley,’ says Phil, casually wharpin’ dahn a crease on ’is new Morrisons T-shirt. ‘Didn’t you see what thet Mr Neil from the Sandparper was sayin’ the other day? Food’s always gonna cost more over yer ’cos they gotta ship it in, plus there’s the property costs etc etc.’
Of course ah knew all this, but still. It don’t seem rart thet we Beans gotta pay through the nose just so we can fillin’ our mouths, eh? Especially what with all these farms lyin’ around.
‘Couldn’t we set up some sort of scheme?’ ah wondered aht aloud. ‘Everyone comin’ beck from the mainland brings a few tins — and Scotch eggs — and whatnot to chuck onto the parl. Tek the strain off the carriers ’n’ thet.’
‘You still got labour costs to think of,’ says Phil. ‘Them aisle attendants and check-out operators are horrendously overpaid over yer.’
‘Sods,’ ah says. ‘Seck ’em all.’
‘Ah’m not sure that’s all thet fair,’ says Phil.
‘Ah’m not sure THIS is fair!’ ah says, wavin’ aloft mah last receipt (three Scotch eggs and a Twix). ‘Hev you ever trahd mekkin’ one of these et ’ome? The egg gets ruddy everywhere.’
At which Phil’s eyes widened.
‘Another Morissons!’ he screamed, pointing over mah shoulder. Ah spun rahnd to look, but there weren’t, and then Phil ran off laughing.