So I’m out and it’s pretty late, and I’ve been instructed not to come home unless I’m in the company of milk and sour cream (more affectionately known by me and close friends as ‘sour cleam’; don’t worry—there’s no intellectual or questionable meaning to it).  I think to myself, no problem, there are an abundance of 24-hour supermarkets on the way home—I can hang around here for a good while longer.

I took the long, dreary way home to go past these supermarkets and they all disappointed me in a way that they’d never disappointed me before—they were all bloody shut.

There are three supermarkets in my suburb alone.  There are at least five supermarkets in my surrounding suburbs.  At least two of these were open for the whole 24 hours.  It really can’t be too much to ask for one of them to remain open all night.

You could argue that no decent human being would ever need to grocerise at this time of night—well, you’re wrong.  Quite a reasonable portion of the human race is up and active at the moment.  People like me, for example, who have well and truly buggered sleep patterns because they start work in the afternoon and finish as late as midnight.

The sour cream in this instance was only needed for baked potatoes, so we can live without it, but I can imagine a scenario where people within my vicinity need sour cream for more kinky purposes.  They wouldn’t take this all-stores-close-at-midnight business so lightly.

It might be these very people in fact, that in their frustrated, unsatisfied state of being, do something rather drastic to get these supermarkets open at night again.  Or they might just end up locked up at the local police station to cool off.  Good luck to them either way.

Actually, I can think of a supermarket that I missed.  It should be open.  Sitting under this roof without milk and sour cream is not a pastime I’d recommend.  So much for trying to correct my sleep patterns—I’m off for a twenty-minute drive.

Oh yeah.  And Happy Australia Day.