I had a tough call to make this evening. Type about the Labour manifest or my small adventure buying a chicken. Guess what? The chicken won.
Her indoors wanted a chicken so where better place to get said bird than a supermarket wot has chickens wot have been made hot by that ol' rotisserie hot making method.
I queued, not wishing to be rude, at the cooked meat counter where the chickens were all sitting ready bagged and tagged, on a large heated glass fronted, shiny metal topped display.
The queue was long which resulted in a long wait as my fellow queuees ambled forward to take their turn in requesting, from the one lady on duty, this being the busy time an' all, various lumps of pork, chicken wings, thighs, stuff in foil trays, sausages and such.
Sadly, this wait resulted in my mind wandering off, unattended, and when I found myself at the head of the queue I had to quickly re-group and remember what I was doing there.
"Could I have one of those delicious lookin' cooked, bagged an' tagged chicken thingies please." I asked of the top of the ladies head; her head being the only visible bit of her over the top of the display.
"That you can." Replied the smiling purveyor of fine cooked meats. "Help yourself."
"Yes, but I can't because of the gla…" I stammered as I tentatively extended my hand and realised, somewhat embarrassingly, that there was no glass between me and the hot, cooked, bagged and tagged chickens. Another twenty minutes gone forever.
Quote; Samuel Butler.
"A hen is only an egg's way of making another egg."
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