The everyday blog of Richard Bartle.
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8:06pm on Friday, 10th November, 2006:
I was in London today. I'd tell you why, but I signed an NDA. The train journey cost me £21 return (including the underground) and £4.50 to park for the day. The trip to London took 55 minutes and the drive out of the car park when I got back took 25 minutes. They must really want me to walk to the station (it's only 3 miles).
Anyway, on the way back from London (5:20 to Ipswich from platform 9 at Liverpool Street), someone had a pie. It was a meat pie. It was a meat pie with the kind of smell to it that makes you think, "Mmm ... meat ... pie ... must eat ... meat pie ...". Half the carriage was looking around for the pie-eater, salivating even if they weren't actually hungry. Even vegetarians and cannibals would have been unable to resist. It was torture!
The eater turned out to be a diminutive woman who spent ages to finish it, all the time driving us crazy. If it had been a constant smell then we might have got used to it, but various draughts contrived to bring it to use in wafts. The torment was terrible. It was almost worth risking the imprisonment that would surely have come with rushing her, snatching the pie and hurling it out of the window (verdict: guilty of theft and willful littering. 5 years).
Eventually she finished it and sanity returned. I don't know which company made the pie, but I have to admit they have themselves one heck of a product there. I'm usually only tempted to that extent by fish shop chips, bacon or strawberries, but they really nailed the essence of meat pie.
The pies themselves probably have gristle, bone and eyeballs in them and are completely inedible to all but diminutive women who nibble instead of gorge, but still, if I pass a shop with that kind of smell drifting out of the window, I'm nevertheless going to give it a try. I won't take it with me on a train, though...
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