Thursday, February 09, 2006

Ain't No Sunshine 

One of my New Year’s resolutions is to see less of the lady at the gate with the dreamy soft white baps.

While her baps are indeed delicious and wholesome, you don’t have to be that Pay Off Your Mortgage In Ten Minutes bloke off the telly to calculate that at £1.60 a throw, multiplied by five days a week, multiplied by let’s say forty six weeks, I spent approximately one million pounds on sandwiches last year.

So I make my own now, when I can be bothered, and I reckon that I’ve already saved enough cash to pay for half a tank of petrol. Wer-hoo! Take that, you capitalist hussy!

The trouble is this: I feel guilty walking past her and not making a purchase.
If I want to go for a lunchtime stroll on a nice day, like today has been, she stares at me with sad puppy eyes that whimper “You bastard! You’re just like all the others! You’re going to that sandwich shop across the road, aren’t you, Judas?”

I’ve tried avoiding her gaze, striding past with a ‘just popping out to post a letter’ sense of purpose in my gait, but I still feel her eyes burning into the back of my head.
How could you? After all we’ve been through together?

Sometimes I’ll loiter furtively by the greenhouses, hanging on until I’ve seen her leave, which is ridiculous, and not helped by the fact that, you know, the sandwiches from the shop across the road are quite nice too, and occasionally I fancy one of them instead, but you have to get there early before they sell out.

So as often as not I just stay in the office. I’ve become a prisoner of my own meanness, solemnly munching on homemade sandwiches that are as dull and worthy as a sub-committee of Canadians, dreaming of better fillings, moist and satisfying, and of blue skies, clean air and the right to roam, but instead becoming mildly bored with sudoku while listening to Mike belching.

“You need some natural daylight,” says Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader. “You’re lacking in sunshine, Sunshine,” which is a bit rich, considering that all her leisure time not spent beneath a builder’s mate from Burnley called Brian is spent beneath a sun bed.

When I sleep, I dream about crisps.

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