The car park was American-sized; built, or stretched, on a scale once unheard of in London. To cross from the station and petrol pumps at one end to the gleaming hangar at the other was something akin to crossing a desert, or so it felt to those who hadn't crossed a desert. Supermarket windows seemed to bat the sunlight back out into the air. The entrance was at far left: spacious and inviting, almost excessively so. How is it, Harriet wondered, that on a 'shrinking planet' certain uses of space seem to be magnifying themselves, well-nigh exponentially? As she grazed the newspapers and the fresh NME, Harriet reflected on what had happened to her name. It seemed to have regained its e. She wondered if she might have been living inside some kind of Perecian formalist narrative, in which the letter 'e' was forbidden in names. It had probably been written by Tim Hopkins. But he'd never admit it. The NME carried a lead letter, so-so, not great, not dire, sticking up halfway for Belle and Sebastian, but nonetheless demanding that they 'speak up'. This seemed a lamentable concession. The NME savaged the fellow anyway. Thank heavens she hadn't been so rash as to write to them herself. Making Life Taste Better, said signs. Life was blue and orange - no, they were its piping, its supplementary colours; brilliant white, as pure as the sunlight outside, was the primary hue of the fresh world. She moved through the aisles and scanned some produce. Lettuces that would freeze themselves into turgid inedibility once refrigerated. Flavours of the world. Baguettes with poppyseeds. Why did they cost the same as, rather than more than, ordinary unseeded baguettes? And why didn't every branch stock them? Marmite. Bovril. Yeats extract. I will arise and go now And go - No, hang on, the Yeats extract was just in her head. But what about its real-world counterpart, the yeast extract? Where was that? Lou Reed remarked in 1989 that human life in America was worth little more than infected yeast. Yet *extracted* yeast, that was something to value. Toast wouldn't be the same without it. Marmite is a kind of yeast extract, it seems. But where was the yeast extract that wore its nature on its sleeve - that was called 'yeast extract', manufactured by, or for, J Sainsbury? A woman passed in the appropriate uniform. Harriet could hardly tell if it was workware or the latest indie-kid fashion. For a minute she thought it might be Alix Campbell. But no. She called out to the assistant and studied her more closely. She was not too tall, yet not tiny. Her face mixed the winsome and the sour. She looked different without an axe strapped on, but there was no doubt about it. It really was Juliana Hatfield. - What's happened to the Yeats extract - I mean, the yeast extract? Juliana affected a 'British' accent. - It's been discontinued... when we had a refit... a whole bunch of brands had to be stopped. No real Brit would ever say 'a whole bunch of', would they? Unless they were discussing bananas. - That's a pity... I always used to buy it. - Yeah, well, we've had some complaints - so you never know. She exited the aisle, sheepish yet sharpish. There was no doubt that it was she. In the coffee aisle Harriet came upon still another puzzler. Wakey Wakey coffee's orange and yellow packaging was intact, yet its name had been changed. It simply said 'Breakfast'. Juliana Hatfield passed. More queries. - What's happened to 'Wakey Wakey'? - It's changed to 'Breakfast'. - Yeah, I see. But why? I mean, what was wrong with 'Wakey Wakey'? - It's about product differentiation... strategies were developed at a high level with regard to naming brands. To bring that product in line with the rest of the strand - 'All Day Long', 'After Dinner', and the like - it really required a more literal name. Plus, I figure that people felt 'Wakey Wakey' was patronizing. 'Breakfast' is just being straight with the customer. That's our aim. It's kind of like when we released 'Come On Feel The Lemonheads'. That was a straight down the line title. We didn't call it 'Have Your People Contact Mine', or 'Ask Park Rangers Where You Should Park'. It says on the box what you get on the CD. Come on, buy the CD - and hear the Lemonheads - which means, feel them - with your ears - right? Something about the story was unsatisfying to me. Unsatisfying tout court, possibly, to a continent of readers; or simply unsatisfying to one gentleman (if I can so call myself) at a railway station in Central Europe. The prose had been acceptable enough, but no more. But the characters of the girls alienated me with a thoroughness which I still find hard to convey. Why must they prattle and gabble so? Why did one speak in a version of the detestable corporate speech of the so-called modern world (advancing towards barbarism with each step of the clock hands, as Teddy once remarked to me, though I pointed out that clock hands do not, strictly speaking, take steps)? I closed the flimsy book, glanced around me, and listened to the conversation of my similarly retarded and ensconced fellow travellers. Travellers on the journey of life itself, no doubt, as well as some more literal jaunt through a portion of the playground which the old cemetery called Europe has become. ________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the undead Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. 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