I was going to do a full post, but instead, I'm going to slip you a few hundred words that made it into a recent university magazine:


There it is, the last full day of being home. As I munch through a bowl of cereal courtesy of my parents extensive larder, I can only reflect on the last few hazy weeks. Apart from the realization that a thin layer sandwiched between a chunky base foundation of crunchy not cornflakes and an even thinner top layer of rice krispies supplement the flavours and texture of each of the other ingredients, I can’t really say much about those weeks away from Lancaster. I caught up with my friends from back home.. A lot. In the true Northern Irish sense of the word, catching up with friends means going for a couple of pints. A couple of pints that very quickly turn into five, to ten and half a bottle of whisky. Half a bottle of whisky to the 1982 bottle of Bordeaux Merlot that has been hiding in the cellar gathering dust for the last three decades. No wonder I don’t come to much of a realization over Christmas holidays..

That’s the thing about living back home, you can really take the piss with things in the house. And taking the piss usually has connotations of getting pissed. My parents might enjoy their gin, campari, wine and their beer, but the spirit cupboard is filled with untouched full bottles given by friend and colleague alike to my parents who are always grateful but generally disinterested in the hard liquor, so really it has to fall on me to drink to the generosity of others. How horrible for me! Just like everybody else though, drinking lends itself well to hunger and in chez Charlton, that’s never a problem. About three and a half years ago, I worked in Subway as (wait for it..) a “Sandwich Artist”. Now generally, that is the most ridiculous job title you could give to anyone short of “Waste Disposal Technician” for your average bin man, but I soon realized that being a Sandwich Artist isn’t like any normal job; it’s a vocation. If my calling in life is to make the best sandwiches in the known galaxy, then so be it. Armed with the leftovers of Christmas’s day dinner, I spent about four consecutive evenings layering turkey, ham, herb stuffing, meat stuffing, sausage meat, gravy, lettuce, mayonnaise, butter, bread and toast into various forms of sandwiches but there’s more. Even after the turkey had dried up and no longer fit for human consumption I was coming up with creative uses for leftovers. The lamb with the gravy and mushroom sauce: sandwiched. The chicken korma: sandwiched. The beef stew: sandwiched. Even the humble bolonaise found away into a double or triple tiered bread construct. Oh how I missed this.

After this realization, I can only conclude that despite most of my time having being devoted to getting festively fooked, I have achieved something in these few weeks. Even if it isn’t in even shaping the openings of my 9,000 word dissertation on the crack epidemic of the 1980s. Even if I spent more money than I earned doing temp jobs, working as a kitchen porter, washing dirty plates in dirtier kitchens. Even if I spent more hours in a dressing gown kneeling, rod in hand worshipping bare and buxom Goddesses at the feet of the pornographic altar that is my laptop than I did clothed and chasing actual women. I can say I achieved something with my holidays. I can say proudly that I destroyed a small part of my liver and even prouder still, I can say I created sandwiches fit for a king himself.