Thursday, 19 November 2009
Dinner last night at Rock HQ was an unexpectedly spartan affair and unusually a totally vegetarian meal. We were anticipating a feast of hot dogs from our own sausages and had stocked up on rolls and onions especially. The Technohermit was given a nice roast pork dinner but we favoured the Rock HQ fast food as an option for a change. The primary ingredient, the sausage was to be collected by the Stable Sprite from the butchers where he was having two of his massive boars done as bacon and sausage. Stable Sprite is immensely proud of his big boars and loves to tell everyone how they were itty bitty bottle fed runts who were at deaths door had he not fed them every 15 seconds and kept them warm with his own body heat. Somehow these wretched little specimens managed to survive their deprivations of piglethood and were now transformed into an abundance of rashers and 200 pound of sausage. We knew this because Stable Sprite sent us a text gleefully explaining he was now inundated with pork filled tubes. He had so many in fact that the butchers had bought some off him. The springs on his van were threatening to break he had so many stacked in the back. If you wanted sausage he was your Sprite.
Happily we waited for his arrival. It was getting late. No worries, he would probably drop them off when he took his apprentice gremlin to football practice. The clock ticked. We waited. Time passed hungrily. No sign of the Stable Sprite or his gleaming white chariot stuffed with pork treats.
Finally, just before we passed out with hunger I decided to cook the onions and we had bread rolls filled with onions livened up with brown sauce.
I sent a text, a gentle enquiry as to the whereabouts of the missing links, perhaps he had been struck down ill, or his van was upside down in a ditch the wheels spinning aimlessly as he hung in his seat belt awaiting rescue, or bandits had hijacked him after his prize sausage, all manner of things could have befallen the poor Stable Sprite. Should we phone the Police, what would we tell them, that we suspected someone had been secretly coveting his sausage and he was in extreme peril. Anxiously we waited.
A text. Finally the answer to our enforced vegetarianism.
Sorry, I forgot to get your sausages.