You know how it is when you arrive home, shattered and weary, and yearning for something comforting and familiar.
Toast, I thought. And tea. Just what the doctor ordered.
Flinging my suitcase somewhere, I made myself some tea in my favourite mug and bunged the bread in the toaster. No Marmite, which was a big of a bugger, but I had Bovril which is as good, I found the butter in the fridge – which was easy because it was the only thing in there – spread the Bovril thickly, and picked up the whole lot to make myself comfy on the sofa.
Which is where everything began to go wrong. Quite, quite wrong.
When I was a kid my mother was always shouting at me – Put it on a plate!Muttering, I would comply and put whatever it was on a plate, but now I’m nearly grown up I don’t feel the need to do as I’m told. So plate free, I headed to the sofa and things began to go wrong immediately.
I’d used sourdough bread and it had holes in it. Actually, one end was a bit mouldy so I cut that off and used the other end and it was fine, but very open textured and the Bovril fell through the holes. It’s quite runny, isn’t it? And sticky.
Anyway, I was making some notes for Peterson’s stag do – no more clues – and I laid one piece on my notebook and got stuck into the other. I’m sure it would have been delicious but at this point I noticed the Bovril falling through the bread and all down the front of me.
I thought a couple of naughty words, tried to wipe it off – which didn’t work at all because you just get Bovril over an even larger area than before – and stood up, meaning to get a cloth from the kitchen.
It was at this point I stand on the piece on the floor.
With bare feet.
Have I said how sticky Bovril is?
I have a piece of toast stuck to the bottom of my foot.
I have Bovril blobs all down my front.
My notebook is covered in Bovril and melted butter and my notes are now illegible. Sorry folks – we may have to cancel the wedding.
I’m still clutching the other piece of toast – no I don’t know why either – and there is toast and Bovril everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. Not least all over me.
I bend down to try to peel the toast off my foot – a phrase I really must try and work into one of my books at some point – and at that moment – you might want to brace yourselves here – I sneeze.
It’s not a large apartment and my overactive sinuses were on fine form. The entire wall is now pebble-dashed with half chewed toast and Bovril. I’m actually watching Michael J Fox in The Frighteners and I’m telling you his haunted walls are nothing – nothing to mine. The boy’s an amateur. Half chewed toast looks just like grave mould and I’ve managed to splatter half a ton of it all across the mantelpiece.
So – to recap. I’ve been home half an hour. I’m covered in Bovril. A large piece of toast has glued itself to my right foot. There are Bovril footprints. I’m clutching another piece which is dripping everywhere. The entire wall of my flat looks as if it’s had an ectoplasmic experience. And Peterson’s wedding will be off if I can’t retrieve at least part of my notes.
I’VE ONLY BEEN HOME FOR THIRTY MINUTES. HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?