The fire alarm went off in Asda on Friday evening. Not that I am one to point fingers, but there were some very suspicious teenagers hanging around before, most probably hiding fireworks under their tops.
It took a good minute of constant alarm noise before we were asked to leave by the car park exit and to leave our shopping in the aisles.
The green-topped staff walked up the escalator to their gathering point and us shoppers were left to wait just outside the exit doors. The fire brigade arrived after about ten minutes.
"Oooh, I've gone all weak," I said to Betty. "What I would give to be carried off by one of them."
We then ticked off all the firemen we have known in our lifetime. None of them could be described as particularly good looking or even that hunky.
Then, all of a sudden, it was over. The green-topped staff jogged down the escalator like a football team coming onto the pitch after half-time. I thought we ought to give them a round of applause, cheer them to their checkouts. A couple of them looked too young to work, probably stock room workers, coughing amongst the soap powders as I used to do all those years ago. Except the Co-op then was like a Sunday pub team.
Asda is Premiership.
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