My mate Richard wakes up one morning
one Sunday morning
hungry.
So he cooks bacon
bacon for a bacon sandwich.
A Sunday morning bacon sandwich.
The whole packet.
An ungodly amount of bacon
it turns out.
He adds cheese.
Lots of cheese.
It becomes a test of his endurance
and love of bacon.
And cheese.
He comes to my house at lunchtime.
He is no longer hungry.
He walks like a pregnant woman
and craves only plain water.
Every so often he groans
and pats his stomach.
“Cheese makes the bacon stick,”
is all he can say for a couple of hours.
It will become a catchphrase of ours
for the next few months.
After a while he tries his newly-stretched endurance
on a fresh-baked apple crumble.
He succeeds.
But cheese still makes the bacon stick.