I don’t know what happened, I swear I hadn’t even thought of them since the start of September. But it just happened. I went into the Co-op on Friday, under the guise of buying an Evening Standard, and without knowing why, I turned left at the first aisle, and stopped in front of the “Snack Pork Pie” shelf. And because there weren’t any individual snack pies, I bought a two pack. Too ashamed to return home with them, I actually went into the pub across the road and ordered a cheeky pint, before retiring to a table at the back of the bar.
Too embarrassed to even let the giffers in the pub see me devouring jelly, fat and pastry, I snaffled them behind the open pages of the ES Magazine. I thought I’d got away with it. But then these two hell-hound Doberman Rott-Bulls show up on the floor. They’d clearly been trained to sniff out undesirables, and one of them came straight at me, jumping to get its massive front paws on the table in front of me, rooting around the ashtray where I’d foolishly left the telltale wrapper on display. It didn’t give up easy, but I managed to pursuade the canine bouncer that it was nothing to do with me, and that licking my still porky fingers wasn’t really very constructive. I was quite literally hounded out of the pub for my crimes against pork.