Walk through those automatic doors. They always open with a slight hesitation, like they’re judging you. Don’t worry, we all get that look.
Inside, the lighting is aggressively bright. It’s like they’re trying to beam the concept of “value” directly into your brain. Your pupils will shrink. You’ll squint. It’s part of the charm, honestly.
The Aisle of Wonders (and Regret)
Let’s start with the essentials. The bread aisle is a gamble. Will there be a respectable sourdough? Or just eight bags of Warburtons toastie? Spoiler: it’s mostly toastie.
But here’s the magic: the meal deal. Two quid? Three quid? I can never remember. But you will stand there for five minutes, swapping a sandwich for a wrap, then back again. It’s a ritual.
The crisps selection is aggressively mid. Walkers, Pringles, maybe a posh own-brand option that tastes like “friendly” salt. Don’t expect a hand-cooked truffle number. This isn’t Borough Market.
