Odd Goings On

by milesdeacon

An african elephant is standing at the till in the Sainsbury’s café buying a jam doughnut and a cafe latte, having a chat with Julie about the Rosemary Conley diet as Julie fights with her arthritis and the coffee machine

In the queue behind the african elephant, a freshwater crocodile holds a belgian bun on a small plate clamped between its teeth. The Cure blares through his Beats headphones and his long knobbly snout bobs rhythmically to the beat.

I look at all the other customers. Have they not noticed how odd this is?

I mean, when did African elephants start drinking lattes? That’s an indian elephant drink.

And when did freshwater crocodiles listen to alternative music? Saltwater, yes, but freshwater?

I put down my cup of tea and concentrate on the other customers.

Yes, there’s more oddness.

For instance,  there’s a black Ridley Scott alien sat crosslegged in the corner reading The Guardian.

But aliens with acid for blood and shiny black exoskeletons are always right-wing!

In a booth near the cutlery, a black hole is eating chicken and ham pie with a side of petit pois and carrots

But black holes are vegetarians!

Carefully, with my heart banging away, I rise from my seat and stroll towards the exit.

Just as I reach the exit a huge wasp steps in front of me. It’s the same height as me and is wearing a security guard uniform made out of dead aphids.

But the tie is not a clip-on!

“Excuse me, sir,” says the wasp, “but could you tell me the time?”

“Uh, yes,” I say, raising my wrist and preparing to duck around the wasp. “It’s half past thirteen.”

The wasp shakes its head.

“That’s not the time, sir,” says the wasp.

“Oh,” I say. “What is the time?”

“Well, sir,” yells the wasp, “it’s time to party!”

Suddenly, Daft Punk blares from the café tannoy and the wasp starts to dance. Around us all the customers jump up and dance with him – the latte-drinking african elephant, the eighties-alternative-music-loving freshwater crocodile, the left wing Ridley Scott alien – leaping about with remarkable skill and coordination. Even Julie, who often complains of bunions and a dodgy hip, is on the counter shaking her sacroiliac!

Finally, the song stops and the dancers walk away as if nothing has happened.

I relax. It was just a flash mob.

As I leave the café to buy five coconuts and a small military coup, the smile on my face suddenly drops.

Since when did a flashmob in Sainbury’s ever dance to Daft Punk?

That’s an ASDA thing!