We at number six have a terrible tendency to fill our fridge with desserts that we never get 'round to eating. This is mostly the fault of the Co-op on Crwys Road, who are never short of a rhubarb crumble or something that's about to go off and consequently being sold at about a third of its usual price.
So of course we go to Co-op, see a cheesecake for little more than a pound, get all excited, purchase it, and then pop it in the fridge and forget about it.
And then, perhaps two or three days after the use-by date, we remember our lonesome cheesecake and buy all sorts of sweets and sprinkles to cover it with, partially to make this plain vanilla cheesecake more exciting, partially to obscure the fact that it's starting to turn.
And we manage to eat about two-thirds of it before dessert fatigue starts to kick in.
"Okay, I'm done. You can have the rest."
"I don't want it."
"Oh. What shall we do then?"
"Throw it out, I guess."
"Yeah, okay. Could you pop down to kitchen and take care of it?"
"I can't be bothered."
"Neither can I."
And so it was that, in a fit of laziness, Sarah and I conspired to throw a hunk of cheesecake out of our first-floor window.
"Don't get it on the pavement in front of the house. Aim for the road."
"I'm worried I'll hit that van. Do you think I can throw it that far?"
"I don't know."
I could, fairly easily. I used a kind of shot-put technique and it splattered neatly in the middle of the road.
How we laughed. This morning, there's little remnant of it, just a sort of faded splotch on the tarmac. So either someone cleaned it up, or the magpies had it.
There are some chocolate puddings in the fridge that we bought ages ago and keep forgetting to eat. Perhaps they'll be next.
Tom moves in tomorrow. I've somehow got to dismantle a bed before then.
Joel.
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