The Magnetic Sausage

"Sausageinabun! Two for a dollar, and I'm cuttin' me own throat!"

Apologies - just a little homage to Sir Terry Pratchett there, and in particular his "Sell anything to anyone" street vendor, Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler, most notorious for the selling of a particular comestible on the streets of the ultimate city - the legendarily awful, but utterly irresistible "sausageinabun."

Why this?
Because the sausage in a bun pretty much accounts for my entire food intake today. Yesterday was d's payday, so today, we hot-footed it to Cardiff to celebrate a brief starflash of financial self-delusion in the otherwise unremitting night sky of theoretical poverty in the South Wales Valleys. In case you're wondering, theoretical poverty is like real poverty, but with a roof, and plenty of food, and good couches, and white goods, and enough food to maintain, in my case at least, a fervent need to Disappear.

So - not like real poverty at all, in fact.
Anyway - down to Cardiff we went, at a point somewhere between the hours of 'Feed me!' and 'No, Really, Freakin' Feed Me!'

With many places and cuisines at our temporary disposal, we ended up popping into a French restaurant named Cote, where d had a full breakfast, and I eschewed my normal yoghurt, compote and granola, on the grounds of sugar, and went instead with le sauccison dans un petit pain - sausage in a bun, only posh and French.

It was glorious, in the way many many French things are, and when we parted, me to my Starbucks for a day largely taken up with Chinese algebra (don't ask - day-jobbery), she to probably not spend the John Lewis vouchers burning a hole in her purse (really, really not like actual poverty, the more I think, about it), we were both replete and smiley, she full of boudin noir, the sausage's evil twin, me full of the entirely uncommon and never seen a garden variety of the otherwise humble banger.

The day passed. The algebra flashed in front of my eyes and sodded right the hell off, as I drank a fairly small number of my Starbucks Specials - oh by the way, I now have calorie counts for those: cold=190 calories (1 consumed today). Hot=130 calories (memory fails, but I think three consumed today). Expect more int he way of utterly tedious Starbucks calorie counting going forward. Then, as we were due to get back on the train to come home, d arrived with a paper sack.

"You have a paper sack, my darling," I noted.
She grinned. "I have dinner," she corrected me.
"Ah," I said, nodding.
"Hot dogs!" she explained. "From Five Guys."
Hot dogs from Five Guys are an acceptable substitute for real food in every human experience. They are, if you like, the ultimate rapidly available sausage in a bun. And so, once I've finished writing this entry, and biked my ass off for an hour, I will return, as though magnetised, to the glories and charms of the sausage in a bun, which appears today to hold me in thrall.

If you're going to be held in thrall to anything, you could do worse.

To the HateCycle! Time to pedal myself to a big sweaty mess to earn a cheesy sausage.