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Pig in the fridge
Thursday, October 14, 2010

At the Job Centre, whilst waiting on the Thatcher blue sofas for a pointless and unrewarding interview, I overhear a fascinating conversation between two employees, both on the large side of large. Think Jobcentreplusplus. The woman, eggy in an eggcup, great stomach encased in expanding trousers, her bum mountainous, breasts like zeppelins. The man, low slung belt, house sized belly overhang, many blubberous chins. They are talking about food. Or, actually, meat. Beef, lamb, pork. Especially pork - how to cook it, how to squeeze out those juices and make gravy, what to serve it with. The lady says,"I've got a pig in my fridge. Not a large pig, but you know, a good size." On the Thatcher blue sofa, myself and a thin guy in a baseball cap and a hoody exchange a look. We are both thinking: you two look like Russian pigs. Break you open and there would be another pig inside, then another, then another until we got to the littlest pig, the size of the piglet runt you had in your farm set, pink plastic perfection, the right size for a pig. I feel nauseous.
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