It’s almost certainly just over-excitement, but here I am at last eating at one of those Japanese sushi-snack bars where the food goes past you on a little conveyor belt (Kulu Kulu on Brewer Street). It’s like watching Grand Prix – or (better still) Scalextrix. Picking your dish is like being a suffragette at the Grand National, you choose your moment and hurl yourself bravely and bodily underneath the breaded prawns. Deciding what to have is like being at the baggage carousel in an airport: that LOOKS like the item you’re after, but what if it’s just a chance resemblance? Best let them all go round again one more time to be sure. Shouldn’t the salmon sushi be travelling against the belt-flow? THE FLUFFY TOY!! And so on.
After a (long) while you calm down and tuck in – and dream of a perfectly organised Moebio-Stalinoid food-industry topology-of-the-future, wherein one single ever-so-long serving ribbon is built so as to loop sushi through every snack-bar in the world…