HUMAN SPIRIT

Howard squints at the row of tins, the edges of them blurring into a kaleidoscope of orange and yellows that dance like ballgowns doing a waltz. He blinks, clearing his vision for a second. He isn’t sure if his glasses need cleaning or whether the optician, who had looked about twelve, had been fully qualified when he had visited last week. She had done numerous tests on his eyes involving various bits of equipment, the likes of which Howard had never seen in the seventy years that he has been wearing glasses. Howard had wondered if they had been testing other things unbeknownst to him. It wouldn’t have surprised him if they had been harvesting information from him and selling it on to a third party − but he’s drifting from the task in hand.

He focuses back on the beans. He can’t understand how there can be so many tins of the same thing, but he’ll be damned if he’s paying 97p more for a fancy advertising slogan. He