The Greggs chain of bakeries set up shop in my brain last night. The scenario involved me handing over 3 slices of ham to be fried up by the assistant. To my knowledge, this is not a service they offer and I am well acquainted with them. I come from a town with a resident population of around 150,000 but there was still space for a Greggs on every corner; there were at least 6 or 7 of them. Northern people like their pastries and pasties alright. After moving to London, for years I complained that there weren’t enough bakeries but I think that’s probably because I spent most of my time in central London where people are expected to laze around drinking Cappuccinos, in between shopping for clothes that are too small for them whilst sneering at anything with a fat content of more than 0.01%. Now I live somewhere more urban/residential I see that Londoners like sausage rolls and cornish pasties as much as the rest of us. There’s nothing like a good old grease packed heart attack in a paper bag. You’re still not fulfilling the 10 stores per square mile quota though, TRY HARDER!
As I exit the store in my dream I see, to my horror, one of the assistants lying on the floor in the doorway collapsed unconscious (too many free pasties perhaps). As he starts to wake up I am relieved to find that I can continue to munch on my fried preserved meat without fear of death.
Moving on from my dream of fried fat I had a healthier one which involved mangoes and Queen Latifah in a lesbian trade off. These two dream episodes were punctuated by me running about as usual, uphill mostly, being chased. Perhaps I’m Wee Willy Winkie.
Yes, bring pastry back
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