The woman in an oversized grey t-shirt with the words CHIP BUTTY written on the chest in calligraphy, the couple marching quickly holding greasy white paper bags in front of them like ready-to-detonate-hunger-grenades, the bench covered in what I hope is ketchup, the smell of battered cod swimming in the park’s air, the bloke lying in the grass swallowing a sausage like a seagull all basically just made me want chips for tea. So I got some.

Carl Burkitt 2024