So with Analogy at the forefront
of my meagre brainbox, I set off behind the wheel
of my saucepan... gentle acceleration at acceleration point A1, into the Attack Position, make a swift, smooth overtake past the
tin of beans, cadence brake before I hit the fridge, watching
out for the gravel er...
spilt sugar... A three - poin - turn in front
of the washing machine and slide gently into the kerb (curb) alongside Number three burner
of the cooker.
The tiny place was literally packed to the rafters with large
tins of fiery harissa; shelves competed with shelves to display brilliant colored powders and exotic herbs, and barrels
of eight varieties
of olives
spilled out in the narrow alleyway.