I go back down to the shop floor.
I am envious of the now-fired replenishment assistants.
I wish I could somehow fire myself.
The rest of the staff are still standing around the door to the store room.
I want to bury myself in all the produce in the store room. I want to feel cold florets of broccoli against my face. I want to drown myself in grapes and runner beans.
Come on, says someone from the Domestic Goods department. Get a move on, mate. Some of us have jobs to do.
I am yanking at the door to the store room.
I am yanking as hard as I can at the door to the store room but it won’t open.
Thirty or forty other members of staff just stand there, watching me pull at the door.
I spend two and a half hours pulling at the door, the other members of staff standing there watching me.
Occasionally The Turtle appears out of nowhere and whips me.
Then I go on my lunch break.