I just ate my first Christmas sandwich of the season.
It was from Pret A Manger and it was all right, I suppose, though it didn't seem wildly festive. In general, I think a turkey sandwich is usually preferable to an actual roast turkey dinner. And I always think that the stuffing is the best part of Christmas. This stuffing was OK without being great. And as always, I could have done without the cranberry sauce but it seems I’m the only man in Christendom who feels that way.
And then, a couple of days later, in the middle of a sleepless night, I started rereading a short story by PG Wodehouse titled ‘Jeeves and the Old School Chum.’ Bertie Wooster is speaking about his pal Bingo Little, and the relevant passage runs as follows:
‘If young Bingo has a fault, it is that, when in the society of a sandwich, he is apt to get a bit rough. I’ve picknicked with him before, many a time and oft, and his method of approach to the ordinary tongue or ham sandwich rather resembles that of the lion, the king of beasts, tucking into an antelope.’
Is there nothing that Wodehouse doesn’t understand about the human condition?