A Story About Weetabix
Emma Jones

Yesterday 
my partner rolled over in bed
and she said: 
“Maybe it’s time for us to buy some Weetabix.” 
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah, our other friends have started buying it.”
I said, “Well, it would be good to have some.” 
I went to the shop 
I found a packet that I liked 
with a yellow sunrise over some wheat bisks
and I took it to the till 
and the man said,
“That’s two hundred and fifty thousand pounds please.” 
I said, “What?”
He said, “Yeah. 
That’s what Weetabix is worth at the moment.” 
I said, “But everyone needs Weetabix.”
He said, “Well you can rent some. 
Six hundred pounds a month.”
I looked at him and shook my head,
went back to my partner and said,
“This is silly. Let’s not bother.” 
Meanwhile my friends were taking out Weetabix loans
left right and centre.
“Got to get on the Weetabix ladder Emma,
or you’re just paying someone else’s Weetabix loan.”
I said, “Fuck it, 
I’ll make my own Weetabix! I’ll buy a bowl and some milk and build them myself.”
They looked at me like I was mad.
“Do you know how much work that is? Sticking them together,
wheaty flake by wheaty flake?
And you need planning permission.”
I said, “But it’s ridiculous!”
So I went back to the shop and I said, “Fine, 
I’ll take out a loan. Two hundred and fifty?”
“No –
that box is worth three seventy now.
There’s been a hike in market value.”
“What?”
“Well you could try Wales. 
Or Newcastle.
Their Weetabix is still two fifty.
But you have to eat it there, onsite. 
And don’t forget
you’ll need a deposit for the bowl.
And there’s sugar duty.
You’re going to have to borrow quite a lot.”