Time for Sandwiches

When assembling a sandwich, I use three knives: The bread knife, for slicing the bread, a rounded table-knife for buttering, and a sharp paring knife for slicing the cheese. As I work, I always think that there must be a more efficient way to do this. I haven’t found one yet. Each knife is so evolved that its Darwinian specialism precludes it from any other work: The paring knife can’t cut the bread, the bread knife would be useless with butter. But each, in its own way is so perfect for the job, and they work so well together.

Remember the time that we were in Hong Kong? We were looking for somewhere for lunch. I stood at the counter for a long time, deliberating. Weakened by the journey, you caught me at an uncharacteristic moment of indecision.

‘I can’t decide whether to have the noodles or a sandwich.’

You looked at the food, hermetically sealed in its translucent plastic skin, then looked back to me.

‘Have the noodles. There will be plenty time for sandwiches.’

I assented, and ordered the noodles. The noodles were good, and salty, and they revived me sufficiently to engage us in conversation. I pulled the Lonely Planet guide from my rucksack, and opened its pages.

‘From here we could take a ferry to Kowloon, then the train to Guangdong takes around 2 hours, or we could take an overnight sleeper right into Beijing.’

You, distractedly: ‘Beijing would be amazing.’ Your focus had shifted through the window of the café, to the city outside. A street-vendor was operating a machine which crushed sugar cane to produce a jug of green juice at the other end. As he fed each trunk into the mangle, a shriek of wood and metal was audible through the glazing that separated us.

‘What is he doing?’ I could see that an idea was already forming in your head.

We never did make it to Beijing. Instead we bought two jugs of the green sugar-water, one large bottle of vodka, and you created an impromptu party back at the Youth Hostel. It was one of the best nights we had.

Anyway, the reason this is all coming back to me now is that I was just here, in our kitchen, on a break from work. I reached into the drawer to retrieve the trinity of blades to make my lunch. My index finger traversed one of our knives, and as I felt the sting, I quickly pulled my hand from the drawer. As I did, one fat globule of carmine blood dropped to the floor. I held my finger and looked down at the resultant splatter, fragmented on our laminate flooring. It occurred to me - we are now in the Time For Sandwiches.

The Quadrivoltine durian dream of Bjorn Borg

Tennis-star-turned-underwear-designer Bjorn Borg slept fitfully after a fraught day at the office. A day in which his secretary quit. A day in which Bjorn’s mind suddenly emptied in the middle of a presentation. A day in which Bjorn had specifically requested a cup of black coffee, and instead was brought white tea.

In his bed that night (queen-size, with calico-coloured Egyptian cotton sheets, which he shared with Mrs. Borg), Bjorn harrumphed, and twisted his body side-to-side, the days events repeating on him like bad onions.

Eventually, sleep came, as sleep does, when Bjorn was not expecting it. Bjorn fell softly into its jaws and his sleep cycle began, drawing Bjorn deeper and deeper into its 200 thousand-year old rhythms, until finally, his eyes started twitching below their lids, and his alpha-waves began firing synapse to synapse.

Bjorn was in a garden. Not his garden, but it was somewhere he knew. As he walked to the end of the lawn, he spotted a tree which he had never noticed before. The tree was angular and exotic, and fecund with many spiky fruits. Bjorn reached his hand towards a low branch to wrest one of these fruits from its stalk. As he did, a voice boomed from above: ‘TAKE NOT OF THESE FRUITS, BJORN.’

Borg lifted his gaze to see the great, bearded face of God scowling down at him.

‘Hi God. Listen, thanks for all the tennis skills and the charmed life.’

‘YOU’RE WELCOME BJORN. IT’S NICE TO HEAR A BIT OF GRATITUDE.’

‘God, can I ask you something?’

‘SURE. I’VE GOT NOWHERE ELSE TO BE.’

‘Why am I seeing you as an old bearded guy in a white robe? I mean, if I’m asked about God, I tend to give a generic answer about God being a force, or energy, rather than a person.’

‘YEAH. I GET THIS A LOT. IT’S CALLED ANTHROPOMORPHISM. IT’S EASIER FOR HUMANS TO THINK OF ME AS HUMAN-LIKE. EVEN THEISM SCHOLARS THAT PRETEND TO THINK OF ME AS SOME ABSTRACT PRESENCE IN REALITY SEE ME AS THE OLD METRO-GOLDWYN-MEYER FIGURE OF A BIG OLD GUY WITH A BEARD. IT’S INTERESTING. OTHER CREATURES DO IT TOO. THE CRAYFISH HAVE THIS GREAT BIG CRAYFISH GOD, WITH HUGE CLAWS.’

‘OK. And it’s a no to the fruit, right?’

‘IF YOU DON’T MIND.’

Bjorn woke with a jolt. His sheets were damp with the secreted worries of the previous day.

Archibald Benoit is a cock

During a quiet moment in his work as a Births and Deaths Registrar, Archibald Benoit accidentally turned to his computer, and googled his name. Archibald kept a fairly low profile, though not by design. He was relatively well known within his village, but the internet was a new window of experience for Archibald, and so he did not expect to be overwhelmed by search hits.

The first hit was a link to the local government website, stating in a matter-of-fact manner his job-title and phone number. The second hit, satisfyingly, was the results page of a local charity run in which Archibald had raced.

The third hit was the one. Right there, in front of Archibald's very eyes, sat the sentence ‘Archibald Benoit is a cock.’ His heart quickened at the sight of this affront. Surely he had misread it? No, There it was in black and white and blue: ‘Archibald Benoit is a cock.’

Archibald clicked aggressively on the link. It took him to a blog by the name of And Figs Might Leaf. Archie scrolled down the page in search of the reference, and found it under the date of July 21^st 2009. No accompanying text, no explanation, and (Archie spent some time surveying the rest of the blog) no further mention of himself. The author used the pen-name Xianjon. This name meant nothing to Archibald. ‘Who could this person be? What on earth could he be holding against me?’ worried Archie.

Archibald slept fitfully. The following day was Saturday. Unable to concentrate on the newspaper as usual, Archie brooded on this ridiculous slur. He was a quiet and gentle man. He hadn't many friends, that's true, but he had never had an enemy. He was always kind and considerate, and always professional in his work. Why anybody would want to defame him in this manner was a mystery. He had never broken anybody's heart, never double-crossed anybody, never even bullied anybody as a child. Really - Archibald could not perceive why anybody would think him a cock.

On Sunday, during Mass, a thought occurred to Archibald for the first time: 'What if I am not the only Archibald Benoit in the world? Sure enough, it's an unusual name, but it is not beyond the reach of possibility that I may have a doppelganger.'

Yes. That must be it, concluded Benoit, there must be another Archibald Benoit in the world. And he must be an odious individual.

Set at ease by this realisation, Archibald had to wait until Monday to confirm his suspicion (he didn't have a computer at his home). He arrived at work 25 minutes early, and before even taking off his coat, he logged on, and his index fingers once again poked the words “Archibald Benoit” into the search box. It was on page 2 of results that Archie found what he was looking for. There was indeed another Archibald Benoit.

Born in Limoges, France in 1970, he trained as a doctor at the University of Paris V before setting up his own private practice in 1996. A keen runner, this Archibald had won a number of long-distance races nationally, raising over €20,000 for heart-disease charities in the process. In 1999, this Archibald left his practice in Paris to provide aid in Kosovo as a doctor for the organisation Medicins Sans Frontieres. Through his work in Kosovo, and later Sudan, this Archibald was awarded the Legion d'Honneur - the greatest honour which can be bestowed to a Frenchman. Now, this Archibald is happily married with three children. He continues to raise money for charity, and in his spare time, he works with the homeless.

Archibald Benoit sat back in his chair, his mouth open, and his eyes hooded. As he reclined he let out a sigh. 'This is it then,' he considered, ‘There can be no other explanation: I am a cock.’