So today I am putting away fabric (I am writing this in the future, it wasn't actually today) when behind me I hear a soft, rasping, high pitched squeaking. I stop dead, the bolt of fabric forgotten in my hand. Slowly I stand up. I can't have just heard that. But I know it too well, I know exaclty what that sound is.
Should I turn around and face my doom? I know what I will see, the ugly prong-like head of a goa'ould streatching out from a Jaffa's slit stomach. Slowly, stiffly, I look behind me.....
and it's a lady with a squeaky shopping cart.
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