A sudden gush of wind flew past as the trolley barrelled away, powered by the eight year old boy who seemed to have lost control over the vehicle which had so tempted him to ride on.
"Oh, my gosh, that nearly blew me over," came a disturbance from the third tier of a shelf, "I could've made a mess of myself over you all."
There came many sighs and complaints. The entire condiment aisle had witnessed the incident. Not to say that this was unusual, this type of incident occurred more often than one would normally be able to put up with. Already this day three deaths had occurred, when an elderly woman had attempted to reach for the pickles on the top shelf, only an attempt it was, for she had not reached her goal but sent three jars of mustard to their numb demise.
The voice which had introduced itself just before took the opportunity remind everyone of the unfortunate incident.
"I wouldn't give them long to kill one of us again. My poor Dijon, we were just getting acquainted with each other. We were talking about, you know, our future, together. I mean, if we were taken home to the same barbecue, where they serve hotdogs, there would've been chance for us to make the physical connection that we had so long desired. I'd always dreamt about an American partner, but it's so exotic to-"
"Ketchup, stop that saucy chatter now, the cream cheese is not mature." From a corner down below, a long forgotten section which had long ago been engulfed by dust, the aged tin of anchovies put a stop to the prattle. Perhaps being the oldest and wisest member of the aisle, anchovies often regulated the conversations that spread around.
"Just because you are...