And when I stepped around to have a look at the pram to see inside
I, like most people, expect to see the Winston Churchill face of a baby staring back at me.
But no, there's no baby.
Only a giant prawn tucked under the blanket with a little lace bonnet on his,
Well, I assume, head. They're shelled, of course.
And when I turn to her, she scrunches her face up and says
"Isn't she beautiful?"
And I go
"She's a prawn."
Her face scrunches up to the point of no return.
"Awh, thank you," she says.
And a few days later, I put the rubbish out, when I hear a commotion:
Excited shouts and screams, like from kids.
When I lean out of the gate for a better look, there are no children.
Just three cornish pasties bouncing along the road.
Two minutes later, a bloke who looks like the film actor Tom Berenger walks past,
And asks me if three pasties went pastie a while ago.
I don't correct him.
Now, at first, I didn't think too much of it.
They didn't seem connected or anything.
But when I was at work the next day and trying to come up with some sort world ranking system for biscuits,
I realised Cathy's sneaking an early lunch.
And while I have no problem with a person like her enjoying a subterranean steak pie at her desk,
I most definitely do object to her putting mayonnaise on the crusts to moisten them up.
I mean, gravy is gravy, there's no need for mayonnaise.