I’ve always wanted to walk into a shop and shout, “Horseshit!”
Although secretly what I’ve REALLY always wanted is to sidle into a shop, grab a packet of Smarties, empty them into my mouth, then RUN OUT WITHOUT PAYING. Perhaps cackling as I go, as long as I could be sure it would come across as vaguely menacing rather than insincere and trying too hard. But once I reached the age of 9, I gave up the dream. It was time to make a choice: to embark on a life of crime, or devote myself to goodness and general worthiness and procuring of confectionary via lawful financial transactions.
But it’s been hard, knowing I will never fulfil that dream, which explains why, when an opportunity presented itself to walk into a shop and shout, “Horseshit!”, I engaged it fully and enthusiastically.
The notice beside the bags of shit stacked outside the Riding for the Disabled Centre in Blenheim stated, ‘manure $2/bag pay at the dalry’. While we loaded three sacks into the car, we tried to work out what a dalry was. We only realised 100 yards down the road as we drove past the local dairy (that’s the grocery store to the European Unionists).
So I marched into the dairy clutching $6 and shouted “Horseshit!”. Given the sentiment, I felt thumping the counter would be a little OTT, so contented myself with projecting from the diaphragm.
“Oh,” whispered the shop assistant. “You mean . . . the . . . poo?”
Which I felt was ambiguous for all that it might have been admirably dainty.
“HORSESHIT!” I confirmed.
At last, a dream comes true.