Bucket of nuggets
At first it seemed like a good idea. I was hungry and the bucket of chicken nuggets was available. I prised the lid free and began to eat and dip; three kinds of dip, tomato ketchup, barbecue and garlic mayonnaise. I sitting in the front seat of the car so the hot bucket was on my knees and the dips, all carefully opened in the well by the handbrake. A simple manoeuvre allowed me to pick up a nugget, bury it in the sauce tub and then eat it. The problem was, being right handed I wanted to dip and eat with my right hand so the nuggets were travelling too far and the risk of a sauce drip in my lap was a real possibility. This added a stress dimension to the meal that frankly I could have done without but the nuggets tasted fine. In fact the first twelve were pretty good, the next four were OK, the seventeenth and eighteenth were more laboured and nineteen and twenty were very difficult indeed.
I put the bucket, now three quarters empty onto the passenger seat and exhaled in a steady and controlled fashion. I took a slug from the Diet Pepsi, returned the cup to the cup holder and set my head back on the headrest. One more nugget I thought, this one, still warm would be eaten without any dip. I awoke, still in the drive through car park, surprised to be there, at least four hours had passed. During this time I’d had a vivid dream about New York, helicopters and donkey rescue centres. I had seriously underestimated the narcotic and soporific powers of the chicken nugget.
The wind must have blown the bucket away and two crows bickered over the remaining nuggets. For them it was a feast.