I’m standing in near darkness. The only source of light is a small lamp held by a frail old man in a night cap. I’m inside the house from Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, but the family are long gone and only Firs their manservant remains, locked in forever. He whispers to me in Russian, reassures me and ushers me into his spartan room. Suddenly the gloom floods with fluorescent light. The shuffling silence fills with lift music. Through walls of glass, women pushing trolleys like Russian Stepford wives are peering back at me. Looking across at the brilliantly coloured boxes in the freezer cabinets on the other side of the aisle, I realise where I am. Firs and I are standing inside of one of these cabinets. We too are products and we’re for sale.