Behind the Waitrose Milk Protest: My Own Animal Rebellion
In a way, we are all spilt milk on a Waitrose floor.
It’s a microcosm - or something poetical - for life.
For crying over spilt milk. Or not. I’m not sure. I didn’t think this through.
Nevertheless, I wrote this true story behind the middle-class milk extravaganza. True down to the last letter.
The Short Story of Milking My Own Animal Rebellion
As I overturned milk carton after milk carton onto the Waitrose floor, my satin shoes turning a muddy beige from the lactose eroding their souls, I felt a sudden twinge in my heart. The clotted cream I had devoured with last night’s scones went right to my coronary artery.
The clump felt tight but rather delightful, sitting in my chest. It was my dirty, milk-addled secret. Each stain squelch that licked my feet became a whip in that brothel off of Hollyshire Road. A nasty secret only me and my Dairy Queen, Cleosandra — the last Tsaress — knew.
So, I continued my pours. And, as my heart continued to marinate and drown in the cream of last night’s feast to end all feasts — a smile grew amongst my lips. A blue smile, clotted, clotted, clotted.
Blue shades spread throughout my body, from my lips to my hips to my head, my ears melting and sagging to become the texture of poorly-trodden grapes. My body, once a clotted cream temple, succumbed to the colour. My heart sank me lower, dripping my innards into the milk puddle.
I knew this was the end. Cleosandra had warned me with those subtle fingers of hers. So, as my face became the final stain on that Waitrose floor, I extended my tongue as far as it would allow and lapped like a cat at freshly spilled milk. The sauce of the Tsaress.
