Do You Want Fries With That?

Having used a yard or so of baling twine.

I’ve made sure my buttons won’t be going anywhere for another couple of years.

I’ve been pondering too. About packing my lunchbox. In theory this doesn’t appear to be too much of a problem. I mean if busy parents can do it for their children every day, it can’t be that tricky; can it? There are a few fellow Throbbers who manage it. Granted it’s normally in the week before payday. Or, if they’re one of The Spice Girls who needs to eat certain foods to keep up with their dietary supplements.

These lunches usually consist of a Tupperware container filled with pasta, a yoghurt and some fruit. This means they’ve managed to plan to buy the food in advance. They’ve cooked it and cooled it and then remembered to bring it to work with them. Then they’ve carried it round in a nice warm Police car for a few hours before heartily tucking in. Is it just me?

There are alternatives though.

Throbbing fact circa 20th Century:- You’re never more than a few yards from a rat.

Throbbing fact circa 21st Century:- You’re never more than a few yards from a fast food establishment.

At last, a chance to vary our deep fried diet.

There are a few rules to follow though. You can’t just eat anywhere, it has to have been recommended by a colleague. Recommendations usually include phrases like “I didn’t die” and “GTP”. Don’t go to places frequented by ne’er do wells either. There’s nothing like having to take a crime report to take the edge off your chicken chow mein. By using these two simple rules the thousand plus Small Corner haute cuisine practitioners can be whittled down to less than a dozen.

Then there’s the Joe Pesci rule. I have no worries about receiving the wrong order when using a drive thru. What does concern me is the possibility of an extra helping of the server’s DNA in with my special sauce. The same goes for deliveries. Who knows what free extra topping you might get?

With the downfall of Super-size and an influx of healthy options, the Dark Forces have got a little concerned. So much so, that they have employed a new shock tactic. The visiting clinic. This is our chance to be poked, prodded and sucked of a thumb-full of blood.

Idle curiosity took me to one of these recently. It appears I am as near to death as it is possible to get without having a terminal illness or actually being deceased. In other words, normal; for a Police officer that is. It seemed I wasn’t the first prime specimen he’d examined.

He suggested a change of lifestyle.

I asked him who would be there to answer the 3am ‘disturbance in private premises’ calls.

He suggested a change of diet.

I handed him a copy of the canteen menu.

We both agreed that Jamie needed some more exposure.

Small Corner wasn’t his first station visit either.

He’d brought a Tupperware box.