Well, there you are. That is, if it is you and not some cunningly-placed cardboard cut-out you have placed there to give me the impression that – this time – you have actually bothered to turn up and that my time spent preparing this buffet, modest though it is, has not been entirely wasted.
I had to walk all the way down to the corner shop for that packet of crisps. Admittedly, that was some time ago a you can tell by the long-expired Best Before date, but – as they say – it is the thought that counts. Although, why they do say such a thing is beyond me. They, whoever they are, though do have a propensity to talk utter bollocks at such times anyway.
Anyway, the pickled onion is of special – if these days only archaeological – interest. It is a family heirloom, passed down through generations of family parties, get-togethers and other such tortures by relatives, lying untouched throughout some of the most significant moments in the history of this country and special anniversaries of the collection of troglodytes, un-convicted serial-killers, child-stranglers and other detritus of the human race that passes for family whenever it is humans feel thy can face up to seeing those they share some sort of genetic relationship with, no matter how tenuous.
So, y'know, treat that pickled onion with the respect it deserves and I may, just, let you have five minutes alone with that slice of pork pie – that is as long as you provide your own piccalilli.
No comments:
Post a Comment