Chucks Wagon is positioned by the top of the escalator in the down-at-heel Broadmarsh centre.
It is an un-assuming pleasantly run sandwich bar and tea stop where I have found it generally good to stop and refresh my tea and cake needs when appropriate.
Unfortunately, from here, today, I am glancing across at the pound-a-go black massage chairs where a gormless group of spotty lads lurch in need of the urgent knowledge that grubby white shell suits are so last year. Two of them are sporting backwards facing baseball caps coupled with lank greasy hair. They look plain stupid and chavvy as well as unpredictable loose cannons socially. I wanted to tell them 'those hats are a tad unsavoury as head apparel, don't you know!' but took another mouthful of cake instead.
Why I am so enraptured as I sit here with my steaming cuppa and cake I really don't know. It all started as a heavily pregnant girl of no more than sixteen years on this good earth actually graced the fatty burger scented air with a the tribal cry of "Ger-ere-Tracy!!!!!" The innocent child of three thrust up her index finger in her sweet mother's direction and carried on being conveyed down the escalator into the depths of hell. I believe that there is another shop soon opening on the lower levels called Dante's Inferno. You can buy any old rubbish for under a pound but you trade in your soul at the cash desk.
Oh, finished my tea - time to get my 12pm bus to Hades. Where's my baseball cap disguise?