What they always say about cats – indeed, one of the reasons I prefer dogs – is that they don’t like moving house. You have to trap them inside for the first week after you relocate or they’ll make your life a misery, going back to the old house, getting into mischief on the way. I’ve always thought less of them for their inflexibility, their prima donna nose-twitching, their refusal to go with the flow. Always, that is, until someone remodelled my local Lidl.
It is hell: they haven’t just moved all the stuff, they’ve reversed half the aisles, so they run across instead of along. I’m baffled by the physical space before I’ve even started looking for anything I want. It feels weirdly fake, like I’ve walked into a trick supermarket, for the purposes of … who knows, kidnapping? Reality TV?
