Buyer

In the bustling aisle of a Tesco,
a buyer moves between the quiet rows—
his basket a humble cairn, tapping a shell of plastic
against the weight of choices, his fingers hunting for the right one.

He knows the rhythm of the register: the soft “chime” that sings for pennies,
the whirring of the scanner, the polite nod of the cashier,
who flips through receipts like pages of a diary.
A cheque lies in the purse, a discreet nod to old‑fashioned trust,
a quiet contrast to the flash of a phone’s contactless tap.

Above, bright labels proclaim “free range” and “artisan” with a bold splash,
while his mind scours the market for value, a game of trade, a chessboard
where every purchase is a calculated move.
He checks the price, the expiry, the origin—
the darling of a local farmer’s market, the imported saffron of the east.

At home, the bread smells of butter, the mince bakes into a fragrant ring.
The buyer, a quiet curator of his household’s future,
places each item on the shelf, a quiet triumph.
And when the dusk slips across the rooftop, he knows the day’s cost lies not in the ledger,
but in the moments of content, the satisfaction that comes from having chosen,
from having spent with intention—
the art of buying, deftly and quietly, in Britain’s ordinary splendor.