Speaking of horror, I couldn't help myself on the way home after the Christmas party on Tuesday. I unleashed my inner pasty-geddon! Oh blessed scolding hot pastry pockets of stuff only identifiable through DNA screening. I can see why every Cornish pasty is 'award-winning.' Primarily because the judges are all drunk. Even though the filling is hotter than magma and there are clouds of eyeball shrivelling steam, the moment the train starts to move, you're in there. That timeless tryst between a man, a pasty, and a cheeky M&S G&T.
The indecision between the divergent ways of the cheese and the mystery meat almost made me miss my train. And half-way home, I wished I bought two, the second preferably chicken tikka, a sort of oriental occidental of the pasty world. I arrived home smelling like an outpost of Greggs which, as any woman knows, is the smell of romance enrobed in flaky pastry.
I can generally assume that if someone turns up at my desk at 3 pm with a bottle of Jaegermeister then the terminal punctuation on my day will be a pasty.
