Alright. I’m not chartered. I’m not clever on paper. I’m just some bloke with a receipt collection and a heart that keeps overdrafting.
My “office” is the chicken shop queue — neon-lit, everyone tired, menu board changing faster than my landlord’s moral compass.
Yesterday: wings and chips were £3.99. A flirtatious little number. Light on its feet. Today: £5.49. Same wings. Same chips. Now with existential seasoning.
Cashier goes, “Inflation, mate.” Like it’s weather. Like it’s rain. Like the sky woke up and decided to charge you extra for breathing.
And maybe that’s true. Maybe the clouds got a pay rise. But I’ve seen the real forecast:
A tenner used to buy dinner and dignity. Now it buys dinner… and a deep, personal insult.
So yeah. People tell me inflation is “complex.” A system. A spiral. Numbers chasing numbers like hungry dogs behind a bin shed.
Cool. I’ve got my own index — street-level scripture:
1) The Chicken Shop Price Index (CPI, but with actual chicken)
In the Before Times (aka “before everything got weird”), you could walk in with a tenner and leave with:
a meal
a drink
change
and the confidence of a man who still believed in the concept of “extra”
Now the menu board looks like it’s been mugged.
The portions get smaller too — chips looking suspicious, like they’ve been through a rough divorce. And the drink is “from £1.49” which is retail code for:
“Depends how much we like your face.”
Sauces are the real early-warning system. Sauces used to be free. A blessing. A gift. Now it’s 30p, then 50p, then they hit you with:
“£1 for two.”
A pound. For two little tubs of creamy regret. And you pay it because hunger is the most reliable market force known to mankind.
Rule: when the sauces go up, civilisation is trembling.
2) Rent: Landlord Poetry (if poets were paid per threat)
My landlord texts like a poet if poets used Arial and enjoyed violence.
“Rent’s going up.” No metaphor. No foreplay. No warning. Straight in. Dry as a bus stop bench in February.
He calls it “market forces.” I call it a group chat where rich people egg each other on.
Rent rises like bread in a warm kitchen: quietly, confidently, like it’s doing you a favour by becoming impossible.
And my flat?
shoebox with trust issues
ceiling peeling like it’s trying to escape
shower hissing and coughing like an old man remembering war
boiler works only when emotionally supported
damp patch shaped like disappointment
Yet the rent climbs anyway — romantic, moonbound tide — like the walls have started believing they’re luxury.
And it never comes back down either. That’s the fun part.
Chicken inflation looks you in the eyes. Rent inflation sends an email starting with “Hope you’re well!” (because I’m about to uppercut your bank account)
Wages, meanwhile, rise like someone trying to lift a sofa alone. Rent rises like it’s got a jetpack.
3) Bus Fare: The Moving Confessional
Then there’s the bus. That sacred little coin-drain. A rolling confession booth where we sit among strangers and practise pretending we’re fine.
It used to be “hop on.” Now it’s “tap in,” like you’re joining a religion whose only miracle is being late.
The driver stares past your soul. The machine beeps: DECLINED. A tiny trumpet of shame. A public announcement: This one is broke.
You try to laugh it off. Make it charming. Make it you. But inside you’re writing tragedies with your ribs.
Because the bus is the perfect economy:
You pay more, get less, and still end up standing.
And when transport costs go up, everything else follows because movement is the bloodstream of the city. If it costs more to move you, it costs more to move:
the chicken
the parcel
the plumber
your will to live
Everything touches everything. Like a dodgy group chat.
4) “It’s only a few quid” (Inflation’s favourite seduction line)
Inflation doesn’t arrive like a villain. It arrives like a shrug.
“It’s only 50p more.”
“It’s only a couple quid.”
“It’s only a tenner.”
Then one day you’re holding a receipt that reads like a mortgage application thinking:
How did wings become a luxury item?
Inflation turns “small treats” into “financial decisions.” You don’t buy lunch — you consider lunch. You weigh lunch against your electricity bill like you’re choosing between love and oxygen.
And it messes with your head: you start pre-grieving things you might need later. You see a price tag and feel personally disrespected, like the number called you ugly.
5) My conclusion (Neighbourhood Economist’s findings)
They can keep the podcasts and the graphs and the people saying “supply constraints” in voices that sound like unsalted porridge.
In my neighbourhood, inflation isn’t theory — it’s lived.
It’s the moment your bag of food feels lighter like it’s been dieting behind your back. It’s “family pack” meaning:
“A family can share one wing each if they behave.”
It’s the cashier asking, “Meal or just the burger?” and you hearing:
“Hopes or just survival?”
And the nastiest bit?
Tomorrow the wings will be £6.29, the rent will “adjust,” the bus will “update pricing,” and I’ll still be here — doing the maths with sauce on my fingers — trying to prove I’m not the one getting smaller.
Because inflation is when the city asks you to pay more for the same life… then acts surprised when you start living less.
BONUS: the Neighbourhood Economist song (NSFW, performed in your head above a pub)
[INTRO — spoken] Welcome to my TED Talk. TED stands for “Tenner, Every Day.” I’m your neighbourhood economist. I accept payment in chips, sympathy, and direct debit cancellations.
[CHORUS — singalong] I’m the neighbourhood economist, babe, I’m counting every crumb, Inflation’s just a love song where the chorus never comes. Everything is rising — rent, fares, and my blood pressure — Except my wages, which are loyal to the past like they’re under some cursed measure. Oh, prices climb like angels, but they land like bricks on me — Welcome to the Chicken Price Index: C.P.I.
[OUTRO — spoken] Thank you for attending my lecture. Please exit through the gift shop— It’s just a chicken shop. Everything’s gone up. Goodnight.
TL;DR
Inflation is when the world gets horny for your money — starts whispering “just a little more” until you’re skint and blinking, wondering how you got mugged so politely.
submitted by /u/deadeyes1990
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