The Eating of the Sandwich

As per request and due to the paucity of blog posts of late.

Herein this moste dreade accounte shall I reveale to you the most harrowing storie of howe I consumed a sandwiche.

Once more I found myself in the library, doing battle with readings upon readings. They fell before me like wheat before the scythe and other appropriate metaphors.

A grumbling noise intruded upon my epic conflict. A headache thudded into being behind my eyes, my focus drifted away. The readings gained ground, sensing my weakness.

I cried out. People stared in the library. I had forgotten one of the cardinal rules of this place. There is no noise allowed, only the hallowed silence.

I stumbled to my feet as the readings crowded closer. ‘No. No. No,’ I muttered under my breath, backing away from my computer screen, from my desk, from the dastardly readings.

The grumbling noise returned, insistent. I raised my pen into the air, brandishing it about with heroic aplomb. White coated librarians stalked out from the shadows, gathering to remove this threat to their domain. Eyes dashing back and forth, feet splayed, I elected to make good my escape.

The computer screen slammed down, the readings defeated, hidden, out of sight and now, out of mind.

I ran down the stairs as the librarians howl in mute silence, in frustration, and in triumph.

White marble surrounded me now, cold, gleaming. The grumble reverberated again, shaking my being.

I gasped. I knew this grumble. It was hunger.

There was only one solution.

Food.

My mind raced trying to find a solution suitable to the occasion.

The clatter of plates and dishware intruded upon my considerations.

Then the notion hit me.

There was a café in this place.

I bounded down the stairs, heroic monologues streaming from my mouth.

I saw my goal, but a line stood between me and victory.

I gathered the tools I would need to defeat this dread threat. A packet of chips, a bottle of green tea, good, but not entirely the solution.

In the cold climes of the refrigerator I spied the greatest weapon. Wrapped in cellophane, gleaming in preparation.

The sandwiche.

Printed on a label upon its plastic covering, said the words: turkey, brie and cranberry.

Perfect.

This would do.

Twice was I almost defeated in this task. Once by the dread prospect of technology run rampant, the other, by unyielding plastic covering.

And then, before my eyes, triumph flashing, hands shaking, lay my prize.

This was the Rite of the Eating of the Sandwich and all would look away.

Minutes later, sated, I returned to my reading, returned to dread dreariness.


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