Sinister: It's Changed To 'Breakfast'

[P F]

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.


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