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Supermarket Warehouse This is the ornate layer: in the supermarket warehouse, boxed children’s gardens rocking on a fork-lift truck, two rats rutting as a closed door would be punched over and over again (we are locked out: the paddling pools are torture saying Florida! Florida! Florida! forever) The toys come alive to Für Elise as they do in all our combined nightmares, daring each other, spinning on the stray dust leaked into crates, making waves of fur   Camping in the Supermarket Garden Outside, the motorway is humming with the night shift but it is not luminescent or romantic like the glow-gore of signs in America that say M  O  T  E  L Instead, the burnt stubble of wildness: low-lyingspinney and shrub, the gradual fallout from car crashes, overage tent-shares or overage friendship Unpacked beer for goose-pimpled men loud with drink, their eyes wide and pale all night   Home They go back on Sundays to their Tamblin Avenues and Hollyhock Gardens, blooming with the fire smell, taking their shoes off, picking up their tiny babies, having baths While sitting, they flick through the catalogue Watching, a tight teal or sea-blue orient themed wall frieze, a waist belt Millenium hangover; keeping it in A cat squats and quivers as it craps in the bushes Now on the quiet estate they are cooking, rest assured things will stay as they are