I am a regular at the local Nisa store. It’s a quick skip, walk and a cross of Dawes road and I’m there, one, two or three times a day. It’s the luxury of having a convenience store so close that makes me abuse it so. It was never been this way back home, in Australia and so in my mind I have a right to use it as much as I can.
The navy-shirted Nisa workers give me a strange knowing smile each time I step up to the counter with an armful of milk, a hand on a loaf of bread, a 250g cube of cooking butter. There is an unspoken agreement between us that I am forgetful, yes and that perhaps I am even stalker-ish. We still give a little greeting though as I turn a shade pinker than the last time I was in. I sometimes get a wink, if they’re in a cheery mood.