I’m standing in the corner shop. Hopefully I’m in front of the bakery section.
I say ‘hopefully’ because I can’t see.
It’s the same every time. Put my mask on, walk into the shop, my glasses steam up. I wander round the shop with a basket in one hand and my glasses in the other. Can’t see a thing.
And yes, I know you’re supposed to pinch the mask over your nose. It doesn’t work. Not for me.
So come on Boris. Do your job properly.
Before I give you today’s figures and explain why lockdown is continuing until June 2026 I’d just like to ask Professor Van Tam to tell that grey haired bloke up in Yorkshire how to stop his glasses steaming up…
The fog gradually receded. Those seemed to be baking things looming out of the mist. But I was impatient. I took my glasses off and stared myopically at the shelves.
What did she want? Chopped mixed nuts? Or mixed chopped nuts?
Was there a difference?
No, because the corner shop didn’t offer me a choice.
Well, technically it did. Buy the bag of mixed nuts or don’t buy the bag of mixed nuts. Go home, admit defeat and face the consequences.
I handed over my £2.90 – on my phone, obviously. What is ‘cash’ by the way? – and returned home in triumph.
“Mixed nuts,” I said. “All they had. I’ll chop them for you.”
“No. Not chopping. They need smashing with the wooden mallet. You don’t want to trip over half a nut in your Christmas cake.”
Awesome. If there’s one culinary skill I’ve mastered, it’s smashing things with the wooden mallet.
“Idiot!” my wife shrieked. “Put them in a bigger bag. Otherwise you’ll burst the bag.”
For some reason she didn’t seem to like the idea of nutty shrapnel ricocheting all round the kitchen…
I dutifully did as I was ordered.
And that, dear reader, was the end of my involvement in the 2020 Christmas cake.
She’s a wonderful woman. She’s made four of the little rascals.
I know what you’re thinking. ‘Four Christmas cakes? How many people are they having round? Let’s dob ’em in and claim the reward.’
Not so fast. She’s made four small ones. The logic – I think – was that half of one of the small ones could go to her mum. Which was fine, because the other half could stay with me. After all, someone had to check that the nuts were small enough.
And if a job’s worth doing…
“Why are you getting some cheese?”
“To go with a slice of cake. I’m just checking the nuts are small enough.”
“Why don’t you go the whole hog and pour yourself a glass of wine?”
“You don’t think 3:30 is too early?”
It’s been downhill ever since.
We’re cutting down before Christmas. Makes sense obviously. It’s either that or take the battery out of the bathroom scales.
My wife has lost weight – I won’t tell you how much because I’m a gentleman – and I’ve er… Well, technically I’ve gained a kilo.
My fault? No, obviously it isn’t my fault. This case of craft beers arrived…
So far I’ve eaten half a small Christmas cake, drunk a bottle of the Christmas wine and polished off a case of craft beer. It’s December 4th.
And none of the children – do they ever lead their poor old dad astray – are home for Christmas yet.
This isn’t going to end well.
But you know how it is over Christmas. You’re always short of batteries. Good job there’s a spare one in the bathroom scales…
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Salt in the Wounds is now available on your Kindle and in paperback