Asda in a van

A man in a van came to our house the other night; I was allowed to wait up to see him. On its side, the van bore the letters “ASDA” in bold green type, letters that I now associate with the tedium of trudging up and down aisles, putting tins and things in trolleys.

The van driver brought a load of boxes to our front door in which were bags of groceries: it was amazing – he seemed to know exactly what was usually on our shopping list. I scurried back and forth along the hall, ferrying loaves of bread and such-like to the kitchen.

“It will be midnight by the time we’ve finished this”, I remarked to Daddy, in great hope.

Sadly I didn’t manage to spin it out for that long, and bed-time was called when the big-hand was only half a circle further round than usual.

But next morning, I was still thinking about the whole affair. “It’s a good idea, a man bringing the shopping to our house”, I told Mummy. “It saves me getting bored going round the shop.”

Then another thought struck me.

“Do they do clothes like that?”