A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe

Greatness is there for all to achieve.

And it's not a case of "i can", "i believe".

Do it or not, or sit down and probe,

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Every thing's there and you can take part.

Every new skill can be honed to an art.

Whatever you do, be sure to absorb

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Beautiful comfort you'll craft in your nest.

Surrounding materials that suit you the best.

Except for the smell that stifles your robe.

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

And then you'll find love; the warmest of mood.

You'll want to do all sorts of things in the nude.

And eat with her/him the greatest food on the globe;

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

This month revealed a strange title that's resulted in a strange post from myself. Out of the four contributors of this blog i am the most likely to actually eat A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. But alas, i haven't. I have eaten a slice or two of pizza that shouldn't have been touched due to old age. I've eaten a mars bar that i found in the innards of a couch. (Which one contributor enjoys bringing up at social gatherings.) I am the inspiration of a game titled "What's this i put in your mouth" wherein i close my eyes, open my mouth and anticipate while my surrounding friends have a party. The worst was french mustard or a spice that i cant remember the name of. I haven't, however, got a story that involves me eating, or even having A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So i couldn't really tell you about my experience of it.

I wrote you a poem instead.

(I did eat a rabbit shit sandwich for a dare, though)

*****

Rather an odd one for you this week but, my gosh, where are my manners. Hello and welcome to another slice of blog pie, the only pie to taste of soggy blobs (disgusting). Now, you’re probably looking at the title and thinking to yourselves (unless you’re psychic and are thinking to someone else) “That title seems rather straight forward. I wonder how he’s going to misinterpret that.”  It’s a fair point I suppose. I do have a history of taking words apart and re-coding them for my own purpose. But not today. This will be a run of the mill explanation about a bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So buckle your helmets and don your best jodhpurs because we are going for a ride (on a horse apparently).

I had recently moved in to a new house with my parents. They had asked me to go in to the shed at the bottom of the garden and clear some of the mess that was in it. Being a child (of some description) I grunted some kind of accord and went about starting the arduous task that was clearly meant for those adult types. I began to have fun once I got into it, finding old treasures of the people who had lived here before us (in the house, not the shed). There was an old music player that had a giant brass horn for a speaker, all covered in dust. I wondered how majestic it would have looked in someone’s drawing room a long time ago (then smashed it up because I am a child). In one of the corners was a wardrobe on its side, leaving one of those dark triangular spaces behind it. Not daring to look at what was there I decided to stick my hand in and have a feel around. Immediately I was sick. Then I was sick again. Whatever it was that I had felt was one of two things. Either a mouldy bag of sandwiches or a ladies vagina. It was soft and furry and it felt warm from where the sun had been on it throughout the day. 

Sorry. I’ve just remembered that the story I started telling was Skellig by David Almond. Strange how you sometimes mistake your own memories with children’s novels. Anyway, here is my story about the long titley thing.

The garment lay fresh and new in a box upon the bed. Its velvet reds and silk greens gleamed as the sun glanced across it from the tall window on the east wall. The master had given it as a gift to commemorate my first day of service. Everyone starting their new post had to wear one but I was sure that I would look better than them all (especially that prick, Herman). I went to the mirror and put it on. It fit perfect in all the right places. Just as every chef looks forward to the day he earns his jacket I had looked forward to this day. The day I got my Wardrobe. To be the ward of a nobleman was no small thing (unlike myself) and was a feat that none in my family had ever achieved. I was now entitled to go on hunts with the master to carry his gun and other equipment. This robe was going to be the beginning of a new life.

The first task I was charged with was to go to the next village and procure for my liege a packed lunch. I was a little surprised by this request as we had people within our own village more than capable of making a sandwich. I was told, however, that the town of Derry Li was only two miles down the road and they dealt solely in lunchables (this is how fantasy works, you work with what you got). I began the short, agonising journey the following morning, my wardrobe still gleaming and lint free, with a bag on my back. I would have need of it to bring back my bounty (not the chocolate, coconut hadn’t been invented yet). I found the village rather quickly, if I’m being honest, what with the giant cow sigil above the gate. You couldn’t really miss it. It was a very busy village and the markets were so full of food I could have fed my family (for a change). I got the sandwiches and had a sneaky cheese triangle before starting on the return journey.

This task was not so easy. My village, the village of No Frills, had no large sign or significant feature that made it easy to see from a distance. It didn’t take long for me to become completely lost. Then one day, some two months later, my remains were found about a hundred yards from Derry Li. There was nothing left of my body. They say I was eaten by Dunkers. All that was left was a bag of mouldy sandwiches at the back of my wardrobe. My master took on smarter, less blind wards from that point on and soon forgot about me (except for when his tummy grumbled and he wondered where his sandwiches were). So I write this now, in the present, as a warning lest anyone repeat my folly.

If you don’t believe that story you really won’t believe anything. There was real world references in that to keep you grounded in truth. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I used to have packed lunch in school. I never liked cheese spread sandwiches but rather than tell my mother I used to hide my uneaten sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. One day, during a clear out my mother discovered the bag of mouldy sandwiches and almost vomited. So basically, both Skellig and the other story are true accounts of the same tale. Good Night!

*****

Dafydd Evans

Luke Sampson