I suddenly had this yen for luncheon sausage. It was the sort of yen I still occasionally get for a cigarette after a quarter of a century of not smoking. You’re suddenly taken unawares by some distant need, some powerful repressed impulse that has fought its way up from the depths of your subconscious to confront you. ‘God, I’d love a cigarette.’ ‘I could kill for a piece of luncheon sausage.’
The cigarette yen is no problem. I used to know a very charming, urbane share broker called Alfie Des Tombe who could smoke just three cigarettes after dinner each night and that was that. I envied him but I could never be like him. I know that if I smoked one cigarette tonight, I’d hate the taste, probably choke on the smoke and feel quite nauseous. But within a week I’d be back to 20 a day. Where cigarettes are concerned I’m an addict and I’m not going to tempt fate.
As for the luncheon sausage yen, I really don’t know where it came from. Making kids’ lunches maybe in another life. When they’d gone, the last piece, doused with HP sauce, rolled into a tube and down the hatch. Or maybe in a white bread sandwich with a little salt and some hot English mustard. Divine!
Well, ‘divine’ in memory at least. I had to have some luncheon sausage.