Shopping With Mel

You are Mel Gibson. You are in large supermarket a short drive away from your home. Recently, things have not been going well for you. You have decided to come to the supermarket to buy your groceries and maybe a treat for yourself when you get back to your car, such as a large individually-wrapped marshmallow or a bottle of Wild Turkey Kentucky Bourbon. You feel like you've earned a treat. You are Mel Gibson.

You are stood inside the entrance to the supermarket, watching other shoppers come and go. The supermarket, you reflect, is a great democratizer: individuals from all ages, creeds, colors and classes bustle and intermingle. Here you see an elderly Jewish couple make way for a young Latin American woman with a pram. There a black man in a suit carrying a basket gives way to two white men - probably gay, they are wearing tight t-shirts, have cropped hair streaked with blond highlights and, most tellingly, are together - as they push a heavily-laden trolley out into the car-park. If you had one superpower, you think, it would be that you could snap your fingers - just once, just now - and have all these people drop dead to the checkered and heavily waxed floor and then vanish. Then you could stride through the supermarket, inspecting the eggs, the baked items, the meat counter, without their persistent existence polluting your experience.

Before you is a long walkway with an opening at either side: to your left is the fresh fruit and vegetables section. To the right is the freezer department where all the frozen items are kept.

Do you want to:

go to the freezer section.
go to the fresh fruit and veg section.