Serve hair side down.....

I wasn't home from lunch at Ginger with Little Miss Manuel for very long when I decided I was hungry again. This had nothing at all to do with the Fisherman's Pie I had at eaten at Ginger, because it was just superb - packed as it was with white fish, salmon and juicy little prawns (10/10) - and everything to do with being a very greedy youngish chap. Plus seeing as I'm still off the evil but lovely cigarettes (oh how I long for thee) I deemed myself entitled to a treat.

mmmm
hairy....

A post lunch snackette was required to fill the void to dinnertime. But what to have? I looked in the cupboard but it was as empty as Old Mother Hubbards cupboard the day before pension day. I lifted out what was there and considered exactly what I could do with a bottle of Nam Pla, a packet of risotto rice and an unopened, for obvious reasons, bottle of anchovy ketchup.

Nothing, obviously.

I checked the fridge. There was a very odd concoction in the bottom of a badly wrapped bowl that may or may not have been the left overs from last weeks navarin of lamb. It sort of glowed a little so taking no chances I just put it back where I found it. I may sell it in a few months to some crazy terrorist type or other for use in a toxic bomb. Or LMM will make me throw it out tomorrow, who's to say? Anyway I drew a blank in the fridge. The freezer only has frozen carrots and the never ending joy that are Mini-Twister ice lollies. And they are more a nighttime treat.

"Fucking stupid kitchen with stupid food and stupid anchovy ketchup." I kicked the mop bucket and spilled the dribble of dirty water contain therein over the floor. Funny but this didn't help the situation much. So I knew I had to do what had to be done, I went to the shop. Reluctantly.

Ten huffy puffy angry minutes later I was back in the groove again. The kettle was on and the toastie maker was making me a cheese and ham toastie. I was happy, so happy that I nearly mopped the floor again. Nearly, but I settled for just mopping the wet bit again. The cheese was oozing out at an acceptable rate and settling on top of cheese from toasted sandwiches from yore. By yore I mean last week. Soon I will have to remove all this hardening cheese from the toastie maker, but not today, we aren't just there yet.

And then they were ready. Hu-fucking zzah! They were browned to perfection and nuclear hot on the inside. Still more cheese oozed from the volcanic core of the toasted bread. I wet the tea and sliced the toasties along the diagonal, such is the way of the toastie, and being an adult now I popped them on a plate. Lifting the plate of afternoon goodness and a bar of chocolate and stuffing the newspaper under my arm I headed back into the living room again to settle down to watch Doctors and relax. Damn it, I forgot the tea and shuffling everything around I reached out to grab the cup.

Plop

"What the..."

Plop, again.

Both my wonderful cholesterol raising heart stopping lip burning toasties hit the floor. To be precise they hit the unmopped and less than pleasant part of the kitchen floor. I stood aghast and agog at the horror of it all. Such a sad and desperate sight I must have cut as I stood there with the Guardian slipping out from under my arm and a Mars bar melting in my hand.

"But hold on a mo", I said out loud to no one on particular "there's no one here, no one to witness my actions."

So recalling the five second rule I figured, fuck it, and just lifted them up and dusted them down a bit. Okay this episode had gone on a few moments longer than five seconds, more like a good 30 seconds by this point. But it was only five seconds in Matrix time. Ah bless the five second rule and bless Matrix time too. I used to swear by the five second rule when I worked in Pizza Hut and not just when I worked in the kitchens either. I pulled the hair right off the cheese and everything. I'm good like that. No one ever died from a bit of garlic bread that's hit the deck. Hey what they don't see they don't need to worry about right?

Right?