Antennas To Heaven Gravy Is Gravy
And when I step around to have a look in the pram to see inside, I , like most people , expected to see the Winston Churchill face of a baby staring back at me. But no, there's no baby. Only a giant prawn tucked under the blanket with a little lace bonnet on its, well, I presume, head. It's shelled, of course. And when I turn to her, she scrunches her face up and says, Isn't she beautiful? And I go, She's a prawn. And her face scrunches up to the point of no return Aww, thank you, she says.
And a few days later I'm putting the rubbish out when I hear a commotion. Excited shouts and screams, like from kids. When I lean out of the gate for a better look, there are no children. Just three Cornish Pasties bouncing along the road. Two minutes later, a bloke who looks like the film actor Tom Berenger walks past and asks me if three pasties went pastie a while ago. I don't correct him.
Now, at first, I didn't think too much of it. They didn't seem connected or anything. But when I was at work the next day and trying to come up with some sort world ranking system for biscuits, I realise Cathy's sneaking an early lunch. And while I have no problem with a person like her enjoying a subterranean steak pie at her desk, I most definitely do object to her putting mayonnaise on the crusts to moisten them up. I mean, gravy is gravy, there's no need for mayonnaise.
