Crockatt and Powell Booksellers - blog

Last night the Maz (my long suffering) went out for her office Christmas party. In other words I had to look after Finn and myself for the evening. Finn was fine. We hung out at Scooterworks eating falafel and drinking coffee whilst chatting to Fifi and Nat. Then we went home and he had a bath and some stories before we set off on a walk around the park. With the lad asleep at last I turned my thoughts to myself and my stomach.

Hmmm. I had neglected to buy anything for my own supper and a bookseller's cupboard is often more or less bare. I had a look in the freezer and spied a pack of fish fingers. I'd been chatting with Nat about fish finger sandwiches earlier and it suddenly seemed like a great idea so I stuck ten under the grill and left the kitchen.

The smoke had to fill the kitchen and the hallway before it reached me where I was sipping from a large glass of red wine...(Note to concerned firemen: We do have an alarm but I had taken it off the wall and thrown it in the bedroom earlier - as it often goes off when fish fingers are cooking normally)

Man, those fish fingers were dead. Very dead. Cremated.

And then I arrive at work this morning to find an e-mail from Adam's flatmate titled Dangerous Times Call For Radical Measures aka The Fridge. It seems the fridge round Adam's is a little stinky. Or very stinky indeed perhaps.

Aren't you glad we don't live with you?