Torched by God
There is an intermittent roaring sound coming from the street outside my office. It sounds like a blowtorch - like a Monty Python-style God is reaching down with a gigantic blowtorch and making a crude crème brûlée out of the Vancouver Club across the road. I imagine the early lunch crowd of bloated businessmen fleeing, neckties flapping over shoulders, paunches held steady with both hands.
Dare I turn around and watch? I went there a few times in my previous job and I remember the ploughman’s was sublime.
This entry was posted on Thursday, September 21st, 2006 at 10:20 AM and filed under New stuff. Trackbacks are closed.
Not turning round won’t make it unbrûlée.
Posted on 21-Sep-06 at 12:24 pm | PermalinkAlso, you might be wrong, and it might be something unexpectedly wonderful, like a new machine for making a plougman’s even better, being put through its paces. Maybe they’ll only keep it if they turn a certain number of heads, and they’re currently one down, with ten seconds to go.
Hmm.
Nah, it’s definitely a blowtorch. Besides, they’lll never make a machine that can improve on a lovingly hand-crafted ploughman’s. Never, never.
Posted on 21-Sep-06 at 12:53 pm | PermalinkIt’ll be out there, somewhere, waiting for a Patent.
Posted on 21-Sep-06 at 1:05 pm | PermalinkGreat big thing, gunmetal colour, valves and oily hinges, a high-pressure egg hardener, a pâté centrifuge for semiliquifaction from prepacked blocks of terrine, and a plastic tube that farts the Branston out onto your plate.
Progress is a marvellous thing.
Stop, you’re giving me convulsions.
Posted on 21-Sep-06 at 1:26 pm | PermalinkSorry.
Posted on 21-Sep-06 at 1:39 pm | Permalink(Arf).
They have CHEESE in Canada?
Posted on 25-Sep-06 at 1:12 pm | Permalink