There was ructions above in the digs last night.
Oh dear I’m sorry to hear that. What was the problem?
Hang sangwidges! That was the cause of all the uproar.
I see. Of course the simple ham sandwich can stir great emotion in the breasts of men.
O, indeed it can. And it certainly did last night. For hadn’t the landlady announced that as she was going to the six o’clock novena she wouldn’t be cooking a full evening meal. No, on this occasion she was doing platters of sangwidges with pots of tay and they could all help themselves just this once.
Well no harm in that. One must attend to one’s spiritual needs now and again. Even the Landlady surely?
Definitely. I’d go along with you there all right. The soul must be fed from time to time as well as the body. Of that there is no doubt. But the problem started when she brought the platters into the dining room. The brother says all hell had broke loose within a minute of her having set them on the table. On the face of things all looked right and proper as, says he, the tuna were fine, not a bother at all with the tuna. No, the tuna ones were first-rate. And so were the corned beef. The corned beef were well up to snuff no question about those lads. Fine things they were altogether says the brother, and them in both brown and white bread too. All perfectly in order and indeed tasty as well, and being mopped up in double-quick time by one and all like a swarm of locusts decimating a cornfield.
I’m struggling then to see what then was the cause of the unrest.
Why the hang ones man! The hang ones was the problem. The brother who does love his hang sangwidges made a move on them immediately and took a quare bite out of the first one ready to give it a good chaw, but in the event it didn’t pass muster at all. Only his good upbringing prevented him from spitting it out onto the carpet there and then.
Goodness! What was wrong with it?
Well I’m still getting over the shock of it myself to tell you the truth because wait til you hear what I’m going to tell you next, for the brother says it had that wafer-thin stuff in it. Not even proper hang! Imagine that will you, hang sangwidges and made with that flimsy pink papery stuff that’s never so much as seen hide nor hair of a pig let alone come offa one. Well of course the brother was livid and wasn’t going to let it pass so he rings the bell to summon the Landlady back, and when she comes in the coat is half-on her, the hat is already on her head with the hat pin in the mouth and her ready to go away out the door and down to the chapel.
“Yes?” says she. “Is there some class of problem?”
Well the brother holds up the hang sangwidge like it was some class of vermin that’s been found under the settee and says nothing at all for he doesn’t need to. He just gives her a look and it’s enough. And of course didn’t she fold immediately and gave them all a full apology on the spot with the tears nearly tripping her. It seems that she had no time to slice the ham offa the joint in the normal manner as she’d been running late for the novena, you see, and had “taken a chance” and used the packet yoke “just for quickness”. Well it was touch and go and there a lot of sour pusses on them all; but after a bit of jawing backwards and forwards they decided that she could perhaps be forgiven on this one occasion, albeit understandably a little grudgingly, for some were shocked to the very foundations of their being, although now the brother wasn’t letting her off lightly. O, he accepted the apology all right, for he is as gracious as the next man in victory, but has now drafted out a specification that is stuck to the fridge with one of them little magnet yokes, detailing what’s expected the next time hang sangwidges is on the menu.
Firm but fair, that’s your relative.
Indeed and he is. And when the tumult had died down didn’t the Landlady come back in with the new plate of hang sangwidges that would have done your heart good according to the brother. Presented on nice white bread they were, not a brown round of bread in sight – for the brother’s specification won’t allow brown within a mile of hang – and the shlices of hang themselves at least a quarter of an inch thick in each sangwidge. Powerful good they were by all accounts. I’d say the Landlady has learnt her lesson over the whole sorry affair and won’t be buying packet ham again. She had to miss the novena as the brother had insisted on that under the circumstance, but sure a trip to confession next Sathurda will have her soul shining like a new pin.
Oh it will indeed.
Ah here’s me bus. Cheers!