» Picky Eaters

Mince
I used to work with a guy. Lenny. I’m not saying he was tight but . . . duck’s posterior doesn’t do him justice. Single, never married, as rich as Croesus. Pathologically tight.

His speciality was the reduced price shelves at the local Co-op. Use-by or sell-by dates meant nothing to our Lenny. The cheaper the better. One day he fell lucky. An enormous box of mince. Probably not much better than pet mince when fresh. Buys the knocked-down mince. Envisions week’s worth of lasagne, chill, spaghetti bolognese.

Gets home. Puts all of the mince in a pan, on a low light. Nips out for a pint.

Upon his return, front door is open. Burglars! Trashed the joint. Pinched all sorts. But left him a present. A gently steaming present. In the pan of mince.

Regaled us with his tale the day after at work.

Sympathising at his loss. The invasion of his privacy. The violation of his mince.

“So Lenny” I said, “what did you do?”
“Well” he sighs, “I had to throw nearly a quarter of it away . . . . ”


Length? Hard to tell when it's curled like a Mister Whippy ice-cream.
(Thu 1st Mar 2007, 14:27, More)