7.11.11 Toast

Yesterday it was finally time to ditch the two slices of rather-well-done toast.  They have, for a couple of months now, been residing in a kitchen cupboard, still mounted on the card that was once set inside a box picture frame.  Since the frame mysteriously fell from the wall and broke, the innards have had no real home.

I suppose there is a slim chance you are wondering why two pieces of burnt bread ever came to be mounted in a frame and on the wall in the kitchen.  I will explain.  By the way, the comment in pencil below the left hand slice (just like an artist's comment might be made) reads, quite simply - "Fucking Toast".

A couple of years ago, I was in need of something to eat, and was desperately searching for some food to have that would be ready quickly.  A loaf of bread had diminished in size to become '2 slices of bread' in the plastic bag, and it was these two remaining slices that were to be my food intake.  They were, as you'd expect, not in the prime of their life, but were most suitable for a bit of browning in the toaster.  I had expressed to those around (Mrs MWSC, Junior MWSC and Mrs Junior, fiancee of Junior) my frustrations at not being able to decide on what to eat, and the disbelief that there were just two remaining slices.  I am positive that it was at this stage I announced, "But we're not a bread eating family!" - a line that is regularly quoted at me now.  Regardless of that being the case (and being mocked by the other three for my announcement) I at least had two slices, just about enough, and I turned the toaster on.

The shitty fucking toaster from Argos was made by Cookworks, but it was not long before there was absolute proof that the brand should be renamed CuntNeverWorks.  Without going into the details, the toast got burnt.  I was fucking livid.  The bread had not browned enough, so had to go back in, but on the second session, the element decided to burn brighter and hotter than a flame thrower hitting potassium.  The toast, when I pressed the button, flew out and landed on the floor, dead.  I was incensed, and was overcome with a need to kick the cuntin' slices around the room.  Unbeknown to me, Mrs MWSC, Junior and Mrs Junior were all in the next room, hiding and sniggering like school kids, as I impersonated Stanley Matthews.

I kicked the toast round the kitchen, swearing like a cunt non-stop, oblivious to the sniggers of the troops hiding in the corner of the room next door.  I released venomous words about there being only two fucking slices left in the first place, when we were 'not a bread eating family' and abandoned my football match when the two slices disappeared underneath the kitchen units, to merge with dust and any other remnants kicked into touch.  I left the pitch/kitchen, fuming.

It was with some surprise that a few weeks later, amongst other items presented on 25th December, a package addressed to me contained a picture frame, within which were the two slices.  The three of them had, when the coast was clear, crept out and recovered the two slices.  They were dusted off, and covered with cling film, and later mounted to form some sort of morbid modern art.  Anyway, I was amused as hell to hear the whole story which I'd long forgotten.

It's all history now, but I could not discard the two slices without logging their time on earth somewhere, and this blog site seems to me to be the best place for the obituary.

...