The Sandwich: #363

The Sandwich


I saw my sandwich! It was just a fleeting glimpse through the trees but I could recognise those damp strips of brown lettuce anywhere. I set off in hot pursuit, crashing though the undergrowth, barging past wet stringy dampers that lashed my face, ignoring the thorny jaggers that tore at my skin and not even bothering about all the squishy muckiness that I stepped in. I emerged from the trees at the foot of a cliff and looked up to see my sandwich climbing rapidly up the rocks in that special way that only sandwiches can.

Oh no, I can't climb! Not because I am a big scaredy wuss who is afraid of heights, you understand. No, it's a medical condition that makes it impossible for me to climb. My knees bend the wrong way, you see. Going upstairs is a nightmare, but boy, you should see me limbo. But then I suddenly remembered that fifteen years ago I had invested in a pair of stick-o-matic high altitude suction mitts, guaranteed to adhere to any surface. I had never had the opportunity to use them until now, so I slipped them on and started to climb, congratulating myself that the bargain price of £29.99 plus postage and packing had indeed been money well spent. I remember my friend Kevin laughing at me at the time. Well he's not laughing now, is he - for a number of reasons, not least because of the accident with the piano. It was his own fault for keeping his mouth open.

I paused to look upwards, in time to see my sandwich drag itself into an opening in the cliff face. I turned the dial on the suction mitts up to eleven and very soon I found myself entering a dark, smelly cave. I couldn't see a thing, but moments later I felt a hand on my shoulder.



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