My son Josh and I stood in Tesco’s car park, eating our sandwiches, watching a Ford Fiesta repeatedly driving into the Saab parked in front of it. Bang. Reverse a few feet. Bang. Reverse a few feet. Bang. Josh’s sandwich box blew off in the wind and I nearly told him to go chase it, but the Fiesta was gathering quite a crowd, and I’d rather him there by my side. I put a hand round his shoulder while we ate, chewing in time to the Saab’s alarm.
I asked the trolley guy what was going on. He was there before us. Apparently, the Fiesta driver had written a story and shown it to a colleague at work. The colleague didn’t get it. Bang. I don’t know why they put themselves through it. “Is that the colleague’s car?” I asked. “Don’t think so,” said the trolley man, before turning to answer someone else.
Sirens wailed in the distance, then got more distant. Once we’d finished our sandwiches, Josh suggested going back in to buy some eggs to throw at the Fiesta. It sort of made sense to me, so we did that, along with some soft tomatoes, and a few cans of fruit, reduced because they looked like they’d been punched in the gut. We came back and started chucking. It caught on with the crowd. Soon several of us were at it. Bang. Reverse. Hurl. Bang. Reverse. Hurl.