I was walking along the wooded path with Bob. He was tracking the scent of something or other in the long grass. Clearly it was something that couldn’t decide where it wanted to go as he was moving back and forward with no discernable pattern. My mind was drifting in a similar pattern. As it has a wont to do. Often on these occasions it drifts to writerly things – a description, a plot device or even a metaphor. On this occasion it was the later that sprang into my mind and I instantly dismissed it ‘cos it was rubbish. I can’t remember it exactly, but it was something along the lines of - like a dog attacking it’s last meal.
I mean, how the feck would a dog know it was its last meal? Sheesh. I gave the old sub-conscious a ticking off. What was I supposed to do with a crap phrase like that?
Then my mind tracked on to the subject of last meals. Convicts on death row get them, if the novels I’ve read are to be believed. So, would a con “attack” his last meal? Would he/she even enjoy his/ her last meal? What would I want for my last supper? Fillet steak, chunky chips and a mars bar on the side? Foie gras? (I’d be beyond being p.c. after all) Amuse bouche? One thing’s for sure I’d want to taste every one of the desserts on the menu and wash that down with LOTS of chocolate. Until I was sick.
But would I? Would I be able to eat anything? Wouldn’t the thought of my impending execution put just a bit of a dampener on my appetite?
(If you ever see me out walking the dog and I’m wearing that distant – and yet intelligent expression, you’ll know that my mind has taken me down some very strange paths indeed.)
What about you dear reader? The end is nigh via an injection of toxins. Would you have an attack of the munchies and what would you have? Or would you only be fit for gnawing at your toenails?
