little reds in a TIN 461bc

Just how long has it been since I previously wrote on this blog? A very long time indeed. Still, I’ve been busy – busy doing nothing and busy doing bits and pieces that when lumped together result in very little.

I almost left my job, but didn’t because I’m caught up in a bit of a “is it comfortable here?” kind of argument with myself which I can’t seem to resolve, not at least without doing something irrational to prove it one way or another. And if I do decide to dive off into the void, I don’t particularly want to be caught up in a drowning not waving situation that I could have quite happily avoided by just biding my time a little longer where I currently am. God this is dull.

My lady and I went to the super last night to try and pad out our mealtime options a little. It seemed like months and months since we last spent a moment blasting around the big shop (the one we’re not supposed to support because of the impact our actions have on local, organic fresh produce). I relish a visit to the super though. And so does m’lady. Maybe it’s partly because I know it’s bad – but in the main it’s because you can wander and look at so many variations on one thing. For instance I walk in and think to myself I’ll go find some tomatoes for a sauce….so I instinctively go over to the stripey tomatoes section and see which tin I can reach that isn’t battered beyond the extent of the Easyjet managed Boeing 737 flight that ended up veering off into a hail storm somewhere over Geneva. As I’m checking out the tins for evidence of being used as projectiles in adverse weather my eyes roam free over the remaining contents of the shelf…there’s Farquoire and Hemsley’s vine hosted, sun dried, rain washed, wind blown variety. Produced since 461BC and a steal at £8.99 per tin. But you know you’re getting a bargain because it clearly states that each tomato was picked up from amongst the windfalls by Roger the blind drunk Springer who was, at the time, looking for a ball he’d failed to retrieve from the vineyard sometime in the spring of 1996. Before him, of course, trained elephants were instructed to fetch the tomatoes from the jaws of starved and depraved tigers, who had already stolen the harvest from a small lad called Jack, who everyone beat up at school because he had a wooden leg and spoke in a dialect not too dissimilar to that of them there folk from zomerzet. Jack later grew up to become a pioneer. This only lasted a short while; the need for men and women to be able to entertain the masses by wandering about with mathematical formulae tattooed on their ears soon wore off.
It took Jack a further 12 years to painstakingly remove the 592654 section of pi from the tattoo on his right lobe, by which time he had been recruited into retail by his long lost cousin Arthur Mound of Tuppennyrice, near Cleethorpes. Arthur and his wife, Fanny, were delighted with Jack’s progress and the fortune he helped to bring in through some very tough times…tougher than Mr T but not very often ‘cause that’d be too tough. It was 27 (Donna) summers later that circumstances began to change, and with the arrival of Jeesis onto the scene, the son of Godfrey and heir to the international chain Ballsmart, there opened up a niche in the market to really push the sale of tomatoes. Jack seized the opportunity with his last remaining finger and tucked it away up his left nostril for 20 minutes before leaving to simmer until brown. This was only possible because of a sacrifice Jack had made ten minutes previously – he donated his soul to Tim Rice, who was stumped for a line that would rhyme with Macavity. Tim’s whole career would’ve come crashing down from a very high cliff into the ground, no, into rocks at the edge of the sea…like at Beachy Head, and he would’ve been unable to pen such ditties as Evita and Starlight Express had Jack not sold him his soul for all his fingers, bar one.
But then he made stripey tomatoes and all was very good until he stubbed his toe and died.