Have you noticed that slices of Spam don’t have a uniform texture? Each slice contains changes in colour and contour, which look rather like a map of a region of wilderness; albeit, a pink one. Living, as I do, amongst the hills of England’s Peak District, I am familiar with such charts. The other uncanny thing about this tinned meat / cartography correlation is the fact that ‘Spam’ is, of course, ‘maps’ spelled backwards.
Maybe I should point this wonderful phenomenon out to Hormel Foods, owners of the Spam licence. Perhaps specific maps could be incorporated in the Spam manufacturing process. Imagine setting out on some intrepid expedition, with your survival and navigation equipment:
High tech wicking base layer – check
Thermally efficient middle layer – check
Durable, ultra light, breathable outer shell layer – check
Bivi bag – check
GPS – check
Emergency flares – check (I withstood the temptation to insert a 1970s fashion joke at this point)
Water purification tablets – check
Hey, wait a minute! Where’s the Dark Peak region 1:25,000 scale tin of Spam? OK chaps, I need to plot a course to our revised first expedition objective, the village store, tinned food shelf.
That morning, I strode purposefully through the portals of the old family pile, knowing that I was about to make a difference. I was armed with a considerable amount of soft cheese and a pair of pink jelly shoes. Hidden from prying eyes by the kitchen garden wall, I packed most of the cheese into the hollows at the backs of my knee joints and smeared the remainder into my hair. Taking care to conceal my beautifully polished Chelsea boots in a plaid shopping bag I keep behind an old privet hedge for this specific purpose, I forced my feet into the jellies; not only were the shoes rather tight, but my mild, anticipation-induced perspiration had rendered my feet a little sticky. Now was not the time to be put off by tight and incongruous footwear, however. Ensuring I was adequately shod, having secured the little plastic straps and buckles, I set off once more, heading across the lower field into Blimpton Wood, a route guaranteed to throw all but the most persistent and accomplished pursuer off the scent. By rather circuitous means, I arrived on the outskirts of Throgmere-under-Panda a little before eleven o’clock. A creature of habit, I stopped in a ginnel, to toast a teacake on my Blewitt. I consumed my elevenses with relish, washing it down with two drafts of home-brewed troffle.
Having cooled my Blewitt off in a nearby beck, I returned it to the poacher’s pocket of my windcheater, from whence I had retrieved it earlier. I checked the wind direction by means of my portable flabskit and made for a back-alley with which I was familiar.
Five minutes later, having attained my objective without detection, I settled down behind a an old water-butt to await the arrival of my unsuspecting quarry.
To be continued…
So, it’s Sunday morning and I’m in my dressing gown. Why is it called a ‘dressing gown’? I don’t wear it when I’m getting dressed; I take it off first. Perhaps it’s a contraction of something like ‘addressing gown’.
“I addressed the large and unruly crowd, my un-amplified voice carrying to the back, thanks to the excellent acoustic qualities of the House of Lords’ principal lavatory. My ultimate authority was assured by my choice of blue paisley silk ‘dressing gown. The mass acquiesced and the day was saved.”
Eventually something will hit it. Be ready for that eventuality. A skateboard helmet is light, but surprisingly sturdy. Being of open-face design, it doesn’t get in the way of eating, drinking, licking postage stamps etc. and can be decorated with small herbs; I favour the chive.
I’m sure there are spiders living behind my noticeboard. I can hear them whispering to each other and giggling at each other’s arachnid quips. I wonder if they post their own notices on the back of the board, which they consider to be the front? If so, perhaps they have discussions about the human they suspect lives on the back of their noticeboard, commenting on the fact that they’re sure they can hear the occasional, unmistakable sound of a chive falling from his skateboard helmet.
Well, it had to happen. The stitching has looked dodgy for a while now and this afternoon it finally came loose. I’m not sure I can be bothered to fix it, plus I’ve a feeling I’ve run out of that coloured thread. Still, perhaps it gives it a bit bit of a grungy look, if that’s not too passé.
I’m contemplating going out with a painted on red vest this evening. I have a picture in my mind of me, resplendent in said vest, holding court in a nearby hostelry, not needing to strain the grey cells too much, thanks to the thrall in which my painted on red vest will hold people.