A trip down to The Eden Project. Instead of spending £5.99 on a polythene-based sandwich at Hooton Wurzel Services we decide to make our own for the journey.
I have a brain wave. "Let's make fish finger sandwiches!"
"Yum, but hold on a mo - they'll be all cold by the time we eat them." Joanna protests.
"No Joanna. They'll be fine. I'll wrap them in tin foil straight out of the grill. Tommy K and a modicum of margarine."
"Okay." Joanna agrees.
One and a half hours into our journey, just past the junction for Padwell Comblazing, I announce, "Time for sandwiches!"
"Not yet surely?" Joanna protests.
"Oh, okay." I concede.
Forty five minutes later as we leave the M5 for the A416065 I announce, this time with a much higher degree of alpha-male authority, "TIME FOR SANDWICHES!"
"Okay." Joanna concedes.
Out come the sandwiches.
We begin eating them but all is not well. They have retained a degree of warmth, thanks to the tin foil, but something fundamental is wrong. The fish fingers have lost all their crispness and it's the crispness that makes a fish finger. Joanna was right to have initially been concerned. The tin foil could do nothing to salvage the crispness.
I've probably gone eight or nine years without a fish finger sandwich. Such a shame to ruin my first experience for so long with a limp and soggy effort. The tin-foiled fish finger sandwich just doesn't work. Be warned.
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