Eggs stir men hate!
Approaching lunchtime and the daily aggravation of trying to decide what to eat. Once again I’ve not brought or prepared anything, despite having a freezer full of pasties after my trip to St. Ives a couple of weeks ago. Do I spend £3 on a sandwich or soup from one of the fantastically overpriced eateries Central London is festooned with or do I go for the packet of crisps approach?
I’ve always had this trouble – even as a nipper. My mom would prepare a packed lunch every day. Well I say packed lunch, if you can call two pieces of white sliced, some margarine and a slab of watery ham a packed lunch. I’d end up spending my pocket money on crisps and not eating the limp feast lovingly created by my mother.
The problem was I never remembered to throw away said sandwiches and would always try and hide the evidence on my return home. Unfortunately, my dog could smell out a dead sandwich from 30 paces and I was always rumbled. But ha! I shall throw said sandwich out of my bedroom window onto the garage roof where the dog cannot reach and the birdies will devour it. But no! The birdies will drag the sandwich onto the front garden just as my mom pulls into the driveway after a hard (yeah right) day’s work.
You will not feed the flying pests outside or you will be ex-ter-min-ated!