The issue, I realised one morning in the supermarket, holding my little list of necessities, was that I couldn’t take my own life. I was wheeling the trolley about, dropping things into it from my brief list, when I came to a stop on the cold meats aisle. There, laid out in cuts and slices and sausages, was pig, every shape and flavour of it, in discs and dice, smoked and cured, all ultra-illuminated by the fluorescent light; like laminated bruising. And somewhere out of view there was a person, with a job and a smock dedicated to this.