Following a recent ill advised dalliance with fromage, post 10pm, I have been gifted with a prophetic dream / hallucinatory experience detailing the cause, if not the timing, of my eventual demise!
I know!
Handy or what!
Anywhoo under “cause of death” on my death certificate (which is the only certificate I’ll ever have won by the way) will be the words...Greg’s Steak Bake. What’s weird about it (well apart from everything) is that I have no particular liking for pastry products in general or Greg’s in particular.
The immediate fallout from this revelation is that I no longer feel able to travel to the end of Cardigan high street, where there is an actual Greg’s, (I mean would you chance it?) and I now anxiously scan the maps on my phone for other branches whenever TCMB and I dare to venture further afield.
Such an unlikely ending shouldn’t come as much of a surprise when I think about it, because over the last few years there have been a number of occasions when I probably should have snuffed it by more conventional means and haven’t. For the purposes of brevity I shall gloss over the time I fell out of a tree onto my chainsaw and even the time I fell off this building… while trying to take down an unwanted satellite dish. (I did bring the dish down with me so not an entirely wasted effort).
Or even the time I nearly drowned in my own filth in this cellar due to a blocked septic tank pipe.
All that time spent contemplating my own mortality in A&E. All that precious wasted time. Doh. It seems possible that as long as I can continue to avoid these particular purveyors of hot and fatty comestibles I may in-fact live forever, an exciting enough prospect that when I discussed it with the current Mrs Broom she give a deep sigh of (I think) delight.
So then unless I’m struck down in the street by a pasty wielding maniac, there’ll be no need for someone to engrave the words “Game over player 1. Insert coin to continue” on any tombstone of mine.
Shame that.
Toodle ooh.