Has Bean

Well, after 58 years on this planet, today I had a quite unexpected experience with a carrot. Yes, you heard me. A carrot. Let me leave that there for a moment.

There I was, due to be in the Old Country for my birthday this year, but apparently there’s some bother with people getting sick, so our flights were cancelled. I think the last time I celebrated on home soil was eight years ago. I remember being a bit down at reaching the half-century, but I soon felt a little better after some wise words over coffee and cake with my old pal, Stewart. I’m sure I mentioned before, elsewhere in my ramblings, but it bears repeating as often as necessary, and it was a good day; I often think about it. “Just keep riding, Colin.” Wise words, indeed.

Yes, but what of the carrot? Patience, darlings.

Since I cannot be in England, I decided to go a bit English for me lunch. You know? Just to soften the blow. I had a tin of Heinz Beanz – it had been lurking at the back of the cupboard for a while – the contents of which I smothered over some toast made with English muffins from Costco. Gosh, I know how to live. It was almost as if I were sat in Oswestry, apart from the absence of a couple of old wrinklies, obviously.

To top that, I then decided to knock up some custard for me pud. Oh, yes. Tubs of Bird’s on sale in Carrefour this week, reduced from $#stupidamount to $38 (approx one pound sterling). Irresistable. I am the King of Custard.

Okay, the carrot is beckoning, but just before that, I felt obliged to don one of my cycling jerseys to pose for the lad and the iPad. I bought this several years ago, but it seemed appropriate to slip it over these aging shoulders this evening. I probably should take it out for a spin, but, what with all that cake and custard, I really can’t be arsed. I’ve already done 4 hours of my target 10 for the week, so I feel justified.

I was attacked by a carrot.

There. For the first time in my life, and perhaps for the first time in the history of mankind, a carrot drew blood from a human. Not the knife cutting the carrot – done that a few times – but a carrot. A carrot, still in its bag, no less. No! How could this be, Col? Well, let me tell you.

I was opening the plasic bag, by tearing through it with my fingers, and I (quite innocently) managed to dig a nail into the side of the bastard carrot. Clearly it hurt the carrot – they have feelings too, don’t you know? Vegans, are you listening? 😉 – so it fought back and inserted a sliver of orange hellfire, presumably coated in the extract of the hottest chilli on earth, under the unsuspecting (and let me remind you, innocent) nail. Christ, did it hurt? Yes, it bloody hurt. I had a moment. I realised why fingernails are the focus of attention of so many exponents of the ignoble art(?) of torture, not least out in this part(ish) of the world. I had approximately 30 seconds when I would have readily admitted to the ten most heinous unsolved crimes of the past 25 years, if only the pain would stop. I would have wept, but my son was at my side and I remembered I have responsibilities.

Carrots. Wannabe orange assassins or torturers. Just watch yourselves next time you visit your local greengrocer. Never mind their apostrophes, apostrophe’s or apostrophies’, it’s all a smokescreen. Carrot’s – 50 pence a pound, guv’.