Rode to a 10-mile distant, DIY store for some nuts. The very last rural outlet yet to be stripped down to the bare bones by their master DIY chain to 50 bubble packs of crosshead screws, two electric drills and; "We can always get it for you?"
Still grey skies but virtually no wind. One supermarket was cheating by not marking down price reductions on the shelf. Probably in the vain hope that nobody would buy the stuff widely advertised as on special offer. I see more supermarkets are preparing for early closure by putting fat, ugly, bad-mannered local women permanently on the single, open checkout. It's a trick they have tried with great success elsewhere. I think they call it anti-marketing strategy. So they [the distant fund managers] can write the closure down as a loss to avoid paying exorbitant Danish taxes. It's a common strategy probably registered and patented as Trump's 6th Law of Failed Economics.
Though, of course, it should be remembered by itinerant, international tourists, that there are no words for "thank you" in supermarket shopping Danish. Just a mechanical "Y'all have a nice day!" <spit> hack-cough! Though I didn't even get the autonomic rhyme today at both supermarkets I was desperately helping to keep afloat. More everyday items discontinued to be replace by gaudily packed "own make" tasteless pig's swill. I am guessing here, but presume that is where unsold food ends up.
Long rows of once, proudly independent shops are closing down in the village high streets. Some with decades of local service behind them. Why should anybody shop locally when they can spend time and good money driving to buy Bangladeshi and Turkish, child-slave produced clothing, with a recognized label, in the big city chains? Isn't that a wonderfully apt term? It so nicely reminds us how these small children are often chained to their factory benches in case of fire.
Or, one can buy the tat cheaper still online. Often for less than you can buy half a yard of frayed and faded cloth, with a distinct whiff of 1950s, stale tobacco smoke, secondhand, at any village charity shop.
I was badly shown up by an octogenarian, women cyclist on an upright, electric bicycle with a smug glint in her eye. Serves me right, of course, but the shame will live with me forever. 22 miles, still not out. I am getting perilously close to 3000 miles for the year with two more months to go. So I must be doing something wrong.