It is ten to eleven at night and I still haven't written a post today. Largely because I am recovering from a bout of drinking and am in a pit of shame. I may have drank too much and may have made a bit of an idiot out of myself. However, I am hoping to distract myself from that thought by writing about sandwiches and listen to Born Ruffians.
Sandwiches (or a McDonalds) are the perfect hangover cure. Sausage sandwiches, ham salad sandwiches, peanut butter and jam sandwiches, a well-made sandwich just takes the edge off that feeling of both sickness and intense head pain.
It's safe to say that I have a little bit of a sandwich obsession. Especially ham ones, with a bit of sweet chilli sauce, or some mustard, or my current love, which is beetroot, ready salted crisps, mayo and ham. Which sounds absolutely disgusting, but all I'm saying is, don't knock it until you have tried it. Unless you don't like beetroot, in which case you probably won't. I think my mother has finally got the hint that I quite like ham, because she bought seven different packets of cooked meat this weekend (That's not really normal for a four-person household, is it?). Aldi do really great ham, who'da thought it? Currently I am favouring the Italian and German cuts. The French are... average.
My sandwich making is a great source of mirth to my family, as I am extremely slow at making one, meticulously arranging the slices of cucumber and tomato and ensuring an even mustard or mayonnaise covering. They may laugh, but at least I know that my sandwich is perfect. My life-long quest: to find the perfect sandwich. A paltry ambition, some may say, but one of many weird ambitions of mine: it's the small pleasures.
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