Wednesday, 29 October 2008

Question of the day...

What happens when you wake up so hungry that you almost inhale four slices of barely toasted bread before realising that the crusts - or at least the remnants of the one that is left - happens to be playing the subservient host to a mountainous chunk of mould? The edges of my breakfast boasted a green and white beard of such proportions that Gillette could have sponsored it…

I don’t know if I’ve ingested a mammoth piece of industrial strength penicillin or a family sized, rogue hunk of yeast-decay. And if I have, I don’t know what that means…

Once upon a time, I heard that eating mould sends the consumer insane. So here I sit, merrily waiting for insanity to take me under its dribbly, probably incontinent wing, wondering if I should call NHS Direct or scour the internet for a solution to this dead-bread riddle. Thinking about it, it’s probably better that I sit it out and see what happens. If I go bonkers, I probably won’t know much about it. Besides, a spell in the Laughing House with lots of available drugs doesn’t sound too bad. My current haircut makes me look as though I’ve been the unfortunate recipient of a dodgy session of ECT. If the cap fits and all that… You see, I try to avoid the advice of net doctors at all costs. The last time I tried to search for a natural remedy for a slight blemish on my forehead (I was beginning to get mistaken for a Hari Krishna person), I discovered – to my complete and utter horror – that my unslightly spot was something altogether more sinister, unpronounceable and very definitely terminal. In the end, it transpired that the world wide web has misdiagnosed me – it was in fact a simple, full fat spot and not death by over-ambitious blackhead.

NHS Direct don’t do much to calm my nerves, either… A worried, ‘Oh… erm, I… I don’t know what to say,’ is not the reaction I’m looking for when I call them, spluttering that I’m not feeling too clever. The rest of the conversation is generally punctuated with pregnant pauses and the odd snigger – neither of which does much for my confidence. Next thing you know, they’ve hung up on you and there’s an ambulance at the door and fully armed guard. It never rains, eh?

So am I going to pop my oversized clogs or simply get committed to my nearest economy mental institution? Or will I just get belly ache and spend the next few hours acting as an unfortunate room odoriser?

2 comments:

Spud said...

Knowing you - Probably the later!! You should be renamed Johnny Farty Pants!

Anonymous said...

My dad always insisted on us eating the mould on cheese and bread because it was good for you. I personally think it was because he was a tight bastard and wanted us to wait until the next weekly shop before we got some more.