This is a butter pie from the local caterers. 'tis a little bland without pepper, but amazingly greasy and crumbly and in other ways good.
While eating it I was bothered by dogs and children, but the blue-rosetted ground-pounders stopped wasting their breath on me for a while. Is pie their weakness? I hope so.
The remainder of the day has been passed in an insomniac haze, wandering around bookshops and sitting in tearooms. I belted my head on the roof of the bus, again. I am begining to suspect that the current generation of double deckers may in fact be single deckers with a second level built-in rather than on. The book shop for which I have previously-neglected Christmas vouchers (and would have otherwise shunned in favour of the little place across town) had none of this, and nothing by him, and they didn't have the other thing I wanted, either, so I got about four quid's worth of Dawkins, because, pff, four quid of anything doesn't seem likely to be regretted. Unless its two and a half pints of that ah, so that's why we can get two and a half pints for about four quid ale. But this wasn't.
In still more enthralling news, I can report having recently enjoyed my first barbecue of the year, all be it a spur of the moment affair that has at least taught us that yes, properly interfaced with a chimenea (sans chimney, which in hindsight should have been removed safely before lighting the fire rather than gingerly afterwards), about a dozen matches, and a broken chair leg/poker, a stack of UKIP leaflets will cook a chicken thigh fillet, some hash browns, and a veggie burger, and to a satisfactory crisp at that. So that bodes well for the future, even if nothing else does (I'm looking at you, Tomorrow Night).
Other topics dispensed with due to tiredness and sobriety include the story of how my great uncle was kicked out of a paragliding club after they realised he was thirty years older than he'd claimed, earning him a few column inches in one of the most ragged of national rags; the story of how he allegedly/arguably left the rest of the family destitute for a generation in making-off with great-granddad's earnings amassed in the course of becoming county welterweight (or similar) champion; the story of how I came, in the course of (what should have been) a simple CD burning process, to hate any number of outdated programmes with which my PC and I are lumbered; a little bit about how I may have finally given up on trying to convince myself that T/20 is sort of cricket and not a fucking travesty unto man; and more FFS don't elect the Tories you stupid, stupid bastards stuff.
I've never voted Tory before, but I wonder if Lorraine Fullbrook's placard could reheat a pie...