Since moving to the Netherlands my care package has shrunk considerably. The only thing left on it really is Branston pickle. And that is despite a rather unsavoury Branston pickle incident that happened when my eldest was a baby.
Picture the scene. My kitchen. My eldest son was just a few months old. He was a mere baby. Our little family comprised then only of the three of us. I was a new parent and I was sleep deprived. Bewildered. Operating on auto pilot. And I was making sandwiches for a long road trip we were about to make.
To be more precise, I was making cheese and Branston pickle sandwiches whilst my baby son lay in the play pen. Screaming. Screaming like he was being savagely attacked by rabid dogs. So I picked him up, gave him a cuddle and he stopped crying. I continued to make sandwiches with my one free hand, baby nestled in my other arm.
Drawing to the end of the ‘tricky with one hand’ sandwich packing process my husband took our son from me and I noticed I had pickle on my non-sandwich making arm. Strange, how on earth did that get there I wondered. So I licked it off my arm. It didn’t taste much like pickle. I wrapped the last sandwich in cling film and cleared away.
“Ohhhhhhhhhh!” cried out my husband suddenly. “Nappy explosion!”
“Gadverdamme,” I uttered. “That wasn’t Branson pickle on my arm.”
Over to You
I know I’m not alone – go ahead, feel free to share your gross poop stories with me..…..make me feel better.
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