Kippers!

 

Funny how kippers have a cultural impact far out of proportion with how often we eat them. After all, as anyone knows, all kippers come from a shed in Whitby. There can't be that many of them. But they hold honorary status as shorthand for a smelly food, you can be done up one and you can wear its tie. They have a comical presence, like strings of sausages and cow pies.

I fried mine in some butter (much less smelly than grilling them) and ate them with an untoasted muffin - shop-bought, I've not yet tried making my own - and plenty of salty butter. They were lovely, though the odd belch since then has tainted the memory slightly. SPOILER ALERT: The other muffins are earmarked for tomorrow.

I followed it up later on with some recreational ironing. I know I'm not alone in finding ironing a pleasant and fulfilling way to pass the time: at least one of my flatmates shares my deviance. Perhaps there's another blog in it.