A FANTASTIC VIEW OF WAITROSE

Eric was a retired, elderly gentleman who lived alone in an unobtrusive bungalow which just happened to have a fantastic view of Waitrose. Everybody who visited Eric commented on what a fantastic view of Waitrose it was.
The Postman, who Eric invited in for a cup of tea one cold winter’s morning, stood at the big window which dominated one wall of Eric’s living room, shook his head and marvelled at the sight before him.  
“That is one incredible view of Waitrose,” the Postman observed, and took a sip of his tea. 
Eric agreed. “Everybody says that,” he said.
Everybody did indeed say that: the milkman; the man who checked the electricity meter; Paul from the bungalow on the end; Elsie at number 12. The gas man was the only person who had not made a comment, and that was only because he stood there speechless, shaking his head.  
Marjorie, the Meals-on-Wheels lady with the wandering eyes, was delivering stew and dumplings one day. She spotted the view from where she stood on the doorstep and cheekily pushed past Eric, making her way through to the living room to get a better look. “My goodness!” she declared. “What an astounding view of Waitrose!”
Eric stood at her shoulder and coughed. “Yes. It is.”  He had nothing else to say, so he peeled the lid off the stew and dumplings and began to tuck in while Marjorie oohed and aahed and her eyes wandered.
Eric’s grandchildren, Tom and Mary, visited most Saturday afternoons. As regular visitors, Eric thought their amazement at the view might have diminished over time, but they never failed to comment. The same was true of Millicent Jones-Smythe-Jones, a well-to-do spinster who lived on the Bromsgrove Road and who tended to pop in on Eric of a Tuesday morning.
“That view of Waitrose is especially magnificent today,” she observed, one particularly sunny Tuesday. “You can see all the shoppers trundling in and out, purchasing all those quality goods,” she added, getting a bit carried away with the thrill of it all.
Eric farted loudly. He did not particularly enjoy the visits from Millicent Jones-Smythe-Jones, and could not remember having ever invited her round to his bungalow, but she continued to call on him regardless.  She would probably keep coming even when he was six feet under, Eric supposed. She was toffee-nosed, bossy, deaf, and clearly had no sense of smell, if her complete lack of response to his fart was anything to go by.
Gordon the Mormon, who tried to convert Eric on the last Friday afternoon of every month, once popped in to use Eric’s lavatory and was momentarily overcome by the view as he passed through the living room.
“What an astonishing view of Waitrose!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” agreed Eric, in his usual unenthusiastic manner.
“I bet it looks impressive at night. All lit up and everything.”
“Yes.  I suppose it does,” agreed Eric.
“A bit like a Christmas Tree, eh?” Gordon was on a roll.
“Yes,” agreed Eric.
“Like a Christmas view for you, every day, then?” suggested Gordon.
“Except on Christmas Day,” Eric pointed out flatly. “When it’s closed.”
Gordon nodded.  
Gordon nodded a lot.  
Gordon was not sure what else to say, but did not want to leave the bungalow now that he had finally made it across the threshold.
“Why did you move into a bungalow with such a fantastic view of Waitrose?” he asked eventually.
Eric tried not to get annoyed. “I did not move in because there was a fantastic view of Waitrose.”
“No, of course not,” said Gordon. “Silly me.”
There was an awkward silence.
“You could always sell the place, use the fantastic view of Waitrose as a selling point,” suggested Gordon.
“Why would anybody think a fantastic view of Waitrose was a selling point?” Eric asked.
“Oh, you never know,” said Gordon, who was nodding again.
Eric made a big show of raising his arm in order to study his watch and to make it clear that Gordon had outstayed his welcome. Gordon ignored him. “It is a fantastic view though. I’m sure it would keep a chap entertained for hours.”
The two men eyed each other warily.
“So.” Gordon cleared his throat. 
There was another awkward silence.
“You lived here before they built Waitrose.”
Eric folded his arms. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t move in specifically because of the fantastic view of Waitrose.”
Eric shook his head. “No.”
Gordon nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “So what did you have a view of before they built Waitrose? Open fields? The lock on the canal over yonder?”
Eric moved over to the window and began to stare out, a faraway look in his eyes. He was silent for a full minute, during which time his lower lip began to quiver.  
Gordon saw the quiver and adopted a more sympathetic tone. “I apologise if I’ve upset you Derek,” he said, quietly, putting an arm around Eric’s shoulder. 
Eric ignored the arm, and the fact that Gordon had got his name wrong. He conjured up his saddest face, sniffed and even managed to squeeze out a tear which he let roll down his cheek.  
“Listen, old chap,” said Gordon, almost kindly, “I’m sorry for digging up old memories. Whatever was there before Waitrose must have been very special.”
Eric managed a sad smile and patted Gordon on the arm. “That’s alright,” he sobbed quietly. “I don’t like to to dwell on the past, but…"
Eric paused for a full twenty seconds, for effect.
"...I really did used to have a stupendously good view of Morrisons.”
Gordon did not visit again.