2003-02-28 9:55 pm

Mustard Sandwich

From the bus window I can see into the fire station. A fireman is using a knife to scrape mustard out of a tub onto a slice of bread. He spreads the mustard thickly, then puts the lid back on the tub and places the tub upside down on the table.

Another fireman comes in with a tray of other condiments. The first fireman bites into his mustard sandwich and leaves the room without looking at him. The second fireman stares at his tray, which is no longer needed. Then he shrugs and places it on the table. Carefully he squeezes the tub of mustard in amongst the other condiments. Then he picks up the tray and leaves the room.

I think angrily about the graceless first fireman, who did not even acknowledge his friend's thoughtfulness. Then I think about a mustard sandwich, and I begin to feel ill.

The bus lurches into town, and I open the window to get some fresh air.

But I can still smell the mustard. It was yellow and thick. It looked like oil paint.

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