Have you ever attempted to wander down a London street without being assaulted by one of those sandwich shops they call Pret? Probably not. Which is for the best really, because it can’t be done.
Like a malignant odour, this faux-French chain has spread through our streets, devouring entire stretches of roads and turning entire boroughs into naught but ideas factories for madcap products like a half-full plastic pot of spinach and cold egg. That actually exists. Look.
Pret sells freakish foodstuffs that no normal person would even consider having for lunch, with the conceited confidence that screams of unsoundness of mind.
Mere moments ago I found myself battling through a haze of suits in an attempt to secure a suitable lunch in a box, and amidst the riot I found all sorts of peculiar objects.
On one shelf was a bar flavoured exclusively with ‘LOVE’. A small wooden crate housed popcorn which was both sweet and salty – a bag of snack food showing blatant disregard for the laws of physics. And those needing something to wash it all down could visit the fridge for a frighteningly green smoothie which I fear must have been made out of the mashed up hopes and dreams of Janaury’s detoxers.
Mystifying products aren’t the most troublesome thing about Pret, however. The thing that really perturbs me about this tragically popular sandwich empire is their staff, their DISTURBINGLY DELIGHTED STAFF.
Why are they always so PLEASED? Their smiles stretch so far across their faces that speech presents a real risk that they might accidentally gobble up their own EARS. It’s quite bizarre. Are they just people who really love sandwiches, or could it be something more sinister?
Want to know the worst thing? I’ve been to Pret for lunch every day this week. For the last two days I’ve bought the same thing. A lack of originality so astounding I’m embarrassed to speak of it.
Within spitting distance of my office are FOUR whole Prets. There’s a Pret in EVERY DIRECTION. I can barely leave the building without an overpriced bar of over-friendly gibberish finding its way into my sweaty clutches. I don’t stand a chance.