I got home and wanted a pie. Being an adult person who don't need no permission to do no damn thing, I strode past my housemate and his significant other, clad in black dress paired with obnoxious Peruvian trousers. Rain, cold and any quiet night they were hoping to be having be damned, I wanted a pie. Or a box of Shapes. Or a pie.
I bought a pie, and a sausage roll. I rejoiced. I stood outside the 7-11, with pie in one hand and a sausage roll in the other, gazing at the monumental Choice That Lay Ahead, while the light from the service station shone down upon me. It was a truly glorious moment.
The pie first?
The sausage roll first?
I had wanted the pie initially, so surely it was to be a case of save-the-best-till-last? Or was it?
Eat one now?
Or do I eat both these meaty bad boys from the comfort of my bed, with the cast of the West Wing for company?
A break in traffic, and suddenly none of the questions mattered at all. For as I reached the middle of the road, from my hand tumbled the pie. It fell in slow motion onto the road. My pie looked up at me, distraught, pleading with me not to be left behind.
NEVER! I wouldn't do that, little pie. I wouldn't leave you and your crusty outside and your meaty insides to waste away here on the tram tracks. I wouldn't have travelled all this way only to leave you here to die a lonesome death.
I knelt down to pick up my dear dying pie, to reassure it that no man gets left on my watch dammit. I looked up to see a pair of headlights in front of me, growing steadily larger.
Pie? Jump? Run? Save myself and my food? Or save myself and merely attempt to be happy with the sausage roll I was to be left with?
I leapt out of the way in the nick of time.
The car sped by. I briefly high-fived myself inwardly for still being alive, then inwardly gasped as I realised my pie might have been squashed. AND I'D PROMISED THAT NO MAN GETS LEFT BEHIND ON MY WATCH. How would I break it to the pie's family? Was it really worth not being hit by a car if my pie perished?
I ran back to the middle of the road and looked down. There it lay. My pie. Alive. I picked it up, and did a little dance in the middle of the road. Call it the Pie Victorious dance. If the pie had hands, I would have taken them in mine and spun it around in glee. Instead, I stood there in the middle of the road and ate the pie in about four bites.
All in all, a winner of a Friday night. I got a pie and I continued to live, sans car lodged in my face.