#227

So, I'm sat there in the flowerbed at the front of the anti-witch clinic, having just fallen four storeys. I'm wedged inside a doorframe, a window frame and now I have a large section of the roof on my head. And then this bloke comes up to me, knocks on my face and says, "Excuse me, are you number 42, Stable Mews?"

This bloke thinks I'm a house. Well, I'll be blowed, thinks I. I've never been a house before, and it's a bit of a novelty. I used to be a caravan in Great Yarmouth for three months every summer, and for a brief period I was a microbrewery in Grantham, but an actual house is something of a step up. I was certainly game, so I told him that I was indeed number 42, and what could I do for him.

"Sign here," the man said. I signed "there" and he gave me a registered letter and went away. Ooh, this was intriguing. I opened it hurriedly and read it, without even moving my lips. It was from solicitors acting on behalf of my sandwich! The cheek of it - the ruddy thing was claiming that I had been negligent in constructing it, paying little attention to the proper application of butter and making a series of unwise choices in the matter of filling. Now it was suing me for loss of pickle.

In all this time I had never guessed that my sandwich could be so litigious. You think you know someone, huh?