I have recently decided to downsize my corporeal establishment.
I have signed up to local weight loss initiatives, joined a gym and begun a steady reduction in all my unhealthy intakes.
My efforts won’t start in earnest until I get to the front of the waiting list for the Kirklees Weight Management programme but I am assured that I will reach the front of that list at some – as yet indeterminate – point in the future.
The programme runs for 12 weeks and my first goal is to lose 5% of my current weight… just under a stone.
Imagine my embarrassment then, when I admit that last night I planned on having a popular tinned pork/ham product for my evening repast… the “lite” version but still, not the healthiest of meal options.
On our last trip to the so-called “super” market, there was an offer on a well known brand of tinned pig product – I am avoiding naming the brand as it has damaging connotations when named in online communications.
Spooneristically, I was sucked into a two-for-one offer on tins of Lam Spite.
Last night, my partner was working late – an opportunity to revert to lazy catering choices and the Python promoted pork product was my intended route to idle eating.
It was dark when I returned home, as it usually is that late in the evening.
I fed the cats and provided them with entertainment for a while.
After coddling the cats, I set about looking for a tin of processed ham – and that’s where things get a little spooky.
I searched high and low for the tins of processed pork; every item purchased at Toryburies the day before was accounted for except for the two tins I was looking for.
I quickly reached an emotional decision point, a point at which I decided to not give into the seething torrent of rage that this kind of fruitless searching often leads me to.
I texted my partner to see if she could tell me if she had put them somewhere but my SMS messages would not send… still I refused to give into the rage,
There were other things to eat in the kitchen and the tins would turn up later… the threatening wall of rage subsides from my sub-psyche and I decide to have one last look.
I enter the kitchen, scanning the sideboards and heading to the furthest cupboard.
A sound from behind me and a dull vibration through the floorboards and up through my foot to my left ankle.
I turn and look down to find a solitary tin of porcine mash half an inch from my heel.
It could have fallen from my trouser leg or from the washing machine next to me but by all appearances had simply apported in my wake – like a reward for not giving into rage.
I must have simply not seen the tin teetering on the precipice, as it must have been.
Don’t get me wrong, I one hundred percent accept that paranormal experiences can and do happen but in this case I think I must have developed a blind spot for what I was searching for – it would not be the first time.
I also didn’t get any kind of sensation of weirdness – the “bad feeling” that often accompanies paranormal events. Just a slight vibration as the tin hit the floor behind me, seemingly from nowhere.
I still haven’t found the second tin but the first was as delicious as salty spiced pig cuts can be.