Dear Mr. Morrison of +Morrisons
Off the bat, do you mind if I call you William or, better yet, Bill? I appreciate this is probably rude of me considering that you managed to turn a simple egg and butter stall back in 1899 (Morrison history) into what is now a major (okay, you are number 4 of 4) chain of supermarkets; but as I occasionally haunt the aisles of your business, I feel we do have a sense of familiarity. Either way, Bill, congrats on getting the business where it is today: I've been in the film business for thirty years and I'm still fighting red over black when it comes to bank statements and you don't even want to know what Hell it is trying to sell a novel out there.
Up front, Bill, I'm a +Waitrose man -- now that's not a class or money decision. On the contrary. I just like being able to amble down an aisle with my FREE trolley and peruse a variety (note variety here Bill) of foodstuffs. I like the fact that I can PAUSE in an aisle, Bill -- pause and reflect and realise that there are five, if not six, brands of rice in this world: realise that Morrison's did not invent the only pasta sauce and, would you believe Bill, that not all soon to be pork roasts are wrapped in blood soaked clingfilm? It is a wondrous thing, Bill, to be able to idly choose on what to spend your sweat stained pound on, rather than be given the choice of nought but your name brand. I'm okay when it comes to toilet paper and the like, Bill, but come on, Pasta Sauce,headache tablets,soap,baked beans etc etc........?? Give a man a choice and he will come back for more.
Now here is the bone of contention, Bill -- why in the name of Hell and its followers, do you choose to stock your shelves every minute of the day? Okay -- maybe I'm exaggerating, so let me rephrase, Bill -- why is it that every time I habituate your store, I'm not only fighting off obscene screaming mothers, screaming children, obese fathers and cellular phone touting teens, but a multitude of your staff and their unweilding effing trolleys?
I kid you not, Bill -- take a wander when you can. I want a pork pie. There's your trolley, your guy, right there, builder's crack and all, stocking the exact shelf. I make a detour for the tomatoes (what's with this recent dry ice effect going on with the veggies, Bill? I don't quite get it. I gave it a few moments of my attention and was expecting a rock concert but then I got rudely interrupted by a brat steering your one pound trolley) and when I arrive, guess what? Bang! Your trolley and two acne laced teens lazily tossing bags of onions and discussing their next smoke break. Right there, barricading the damn tomatoes, Bill!
So here's the thing -- I'm not saying Waitrose and the like don't have to re-stock their shelves during the day. But they seem to do it...well... in a clandestine manner. They apologise for being there. They ask if they can help. Your mob? Forget it, Bill -- my little one pound trolley is but a mere ant versus your tank; versus your over-stacked, rusty heap of piped metal on shaky wheels.
Get out of my aisle, Bill -- I'm there to spend money on groceries, not to attend a demolition derby.
P.S. Have you ever thought about selling books only published by self-publishers? I'm, of course, suggesting this for selfish reasons, but I do have an ulterior motive: if you did, at least you could offer a damn choice, Bill.
Think about it.
TO READ MORE OF MARK ROPER'S RAMBLINGS, PLEASE VISIT here.
Better yet, download a novella of his scribblings at a ridiculous low price!!!
Off the bat, do you mind if I call you William or, better yet, Bill? I appreciate this is probably rude of me considering that you managed to turn a simple egg and butter stall back in 1899 (Morrison history) into what is now a major (okay, you are number 4 of 4) chain of supermarkets; but as I occasionally haunt the aisles of your business, I feel we do have a sense of familiarity. Either way, Bill, congrats on getting the business where it is today: I've been in the film business for thirty years and I'm still fighting red over black when it comes to bank statements and you don't even want to know what Hell it is trying to sell a novel out there.
Up front, Bill, I'm a +Waitrose man -- now that's not a class or money decision. On the contrary. I just like being able to amble down an aisle with my FREE trolley and peruse a variety (note variety here Bill) of foodstuffs. I like the fact that I can PAUSE in an aisle, Bill -- pause and reflect and realise that there are five, if not six, brands of rice in this world: realise that Morrison's did not invent the only pasta sauce and, would you believe Bill, that not all soon to be pork roasts are wrapped in blood soaked clingfilm? It is a wondrous thing, Bill, to be able to idly choose on what to spend your sweat stained pound on, rather than be given the choice of nought but your name brand. I'm okay when it comes to toilet paper and the like, Bill, but come on, Pasta Sauce,headache tablets,soap,baked beans etc etc........?? Give a man a choice and he will come back for more.
Now here is the bone of contention, Bill -- why in the name of Hell and its followers, do you choose to stock your shelves every minute of the day? Okay -- maybe I'm exaggerating, so let me rephrase, Bill -- why is it that every time I habituate your store, I'm not only fighting off obscene screaming mothers, screaming children, obese fathers and cellular phone touting teens, but a multitude of your staff and their unweilding effing trolleys?
I kid you not, Bill -- take a wander when you can. I want a pork pie. There's your trolley, your guy, right there, builder's crack and all, stocking the exact shelf. I make a detour for the tomatoes (what's with this recent dry ice effect going on with the veggies, Bill? I don't quite get it. I gave it a few moments of my attention and was expecting a rock concert but then I got rudely interrupted by a brat steering your one pound trolley) and when I arrive, guess what? Bang! Your trolley and two acne laced teens lazily tossing bags of onions and discussing their next smoke break. Right there, barricading the damn tomatoes, Bill!
So here's the thing -- I'm not saying Waitrose and the like don't have to re-stock their shelves during the day. But they seem to do it...well... in a clandestine manner. They apologise for being there. They ask if they can help. Your mob? Forget it, Bill -- my little one pound trolley is but a mere ant versus your tank; versus your over-stacked, rusty heap of piped metal on shaky wheels.
Get out of my aisle, Bill -- I'm there to spend money on groceries, not to attend a demolition derby.
P.S. Have you ever thought about selling books only published by self-publishers? I'm, of course, suggesting this for selfish reasons, but I do have an ulterior motive: if you did, at least you could offer a damn choice, Bill.
Think about it.
TO READ MORE OF MARK ROPER'S RAMBLINGS, PLEASE VISIT here.
Better yet, download a novella of his scribblings at a ridiculous low price!!!
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