Into administration - Part One

In these times of economic downturn I am finding meaningful work hard to come by. I can't grumble though, as I have employment for as long as I should need it in a cheery little company, tucked enticingly between an unmarked exit of the A1035, a Premier Inn, a Travel Lodge, a Holiday Inn and - best of all - the Big Brother house. Should i ever need a depressing place in which to end it all, I am not short of options.

Seeing as music, internet, food, drink, unauthorised movement of bowels, laughter and personal improvement are all punishable by one day's archiving in 'the hole', i plan to use this blog - like Morgan Freeman used that juvenile car thief's bottom in the Shawshank Redemption - to vent my frustrations and (hopefully) prevent them from erupting through my chest in a massive throbbing hernia. Here's the first installment.

Once a day, I break off from my work to investigate the morning food trolley. The chef behind its menu is an unsung hero of British cooking. Inspired in no small part by culinary maverick Heston Bloomingdales, this anonymous kitchen-wizard pushes the boundaries of the humble pasty blueprint on a daily basis. While sceptics implore him to stick to tried and tested combinations, he presses on, challenging the brittle, flakey pastry to contain foods that, on the face of it, were never meant to be contained.

Today however, I venture he took on too much. Peeling back the foil that lay across the tray of cooked goods, I recoiled in horror at the carnage that lay beneath: An orgy of dismembered pastry, sodden and matted in a thick orange gunge. Seeing my reaction, the trolley's minder looked disappointed, her faith in her master's vision had been dented, 'they've gone a bit soggy,' she conceded, 'i think it's the beans.'