Joe.

I have a deep and profound connection with my local supermarket. It's the one that I vomited all over the floor in when I was six and dying of stomach flu. It's the one that I feel less like dying in because ZOMG I KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING IS!!!!11!!!1! It's the one that does amazing offers on Coca Cola that basically ensure my teeth are going to hell within the next four years.

It also has a skate park in the car park, rats in the trolley bay and smells of 'just-past-clean'.

AND the toilets are all lit in blue so you can't see your veins to inject The Drugs, it's THAT badass.

Anyway.

I usually go there when I'm going to make my world-famous lasagne, and I'm always served by the same person when I pay.

His name is Joe.

Joe is easily into his fifties, has a faded tattoo in his inner left forearm of a celtic cross, has some teeth missing, one ear pierced, cannot remember solid decades of his life and has the most awesome sense of presence that I've ever come across.

Joe is just golden.

JOE IS AWESOME.

But of course nobody sees that. No one goes to that run-down store that smells of 'just-past-clean' with tired, quirky staff and has a conversation with Joe, which really sucks because he's no regular Joe.

I don't think I have a conclusion here.

Love thy Joes.