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A woman is standing before the euphemistically titled functional yoghurts section in the cool, well-lit dairy aisle of a large out of town supermarket.

She is dressed for the office perhaps, a blue-grey single-breasted jacket over a simple white cotton blouse and a slightly too long to be fashionable black pencil skirt. A smudged rectangle of pinkish-white dust on the left hip of her skirt suggests she is in fact a school-teacher. Her face, unadorned with make-up, would be considered by most men as pretty, though dark rings under her grey-green eyes are indicative of a lack of sleep. Unkempt strands in her bob of dark brown hair waft in the blast of refrigerated air from the large open cabinet in front of her.

She bites her lip as if in deep thought, staring intently at the rows of pots ranged before her on their refrigerated shelves. Above the susurration of a thousand mundane purchases, the drone of an announcement over the in-store speaker system requests a cleaner by till number seventeen. Suddenly, the woman drives her arm into the shelves of yoghurt, two fingers of her right hand precisely spearing the lid of a pot of Danone fruits of the forest. The woman withdraws her fingers from the pot and puts them in her mouth, sucking the lavender-coloured yoghurt with a look of deep, almost sensual pleasure. A single spot of pinkish-purple yoghurt drops onto her blouse.

After another moment, the woman repeatedly jabs her fingers into the shelf, spearing pot after pot. The aisle echoes to a regular wet popping sound as she stabs into the display, over and over, sucking the contents of each pot from her fingers with ecstatic reverence. Her right arm is soon slathered with a pastel mix of creamy splashes; as much again runs down her chin and onto her heaving chest. A small, nervous crowd of customers and junior staff members has formed, huddled at each end of the dairy aisle. The spectators watch the woman with a mixture of expressions, ranging from amusement to shock to horrified fascination.

Finally, the deputy manager is called and he cautiously approaches the woman from the end of the aisle closest to the cheeses. He notes distractedly that besides the store-brand mature farmhouse cheddar, someone has deposited a tin of minestrone soup. Two security guards flank the deputy manager, attempting to look nonchalant, though this fools no-one present. By now, the woman is covered in yoghurt across most of her chest and face, nearly all the yoghurt pots are ruined, their contents running into each other and spreading to the natural and set yoghurts on the shelf below. Two fans of glistening droplets spread across the floor to either side of the panting woman.

'Miss?' says the deputy manager. He is close enough now to smell the miasma of fruit flavours, making him slightly nauseous. He has never liked yoghurt.
The woman wipes her chin with her sleeve and the action causes a gout of runny mess to spatter over the deputy manager's shoes, as well as the turn-up of his right trouser leg, causing him to take an involuntary step back.
'No,' she replies, slightly hoarse.
'I think I got them all'.

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