I used to go on day-long rambles at the weekend, stopping at a country pub for lunch about halfway through, before finishing the walk and returning to London. Lunch could be early or late as it depended on how far into the ramble the pub was, and as I don’t eat breakfast, I had to pack a snack for my blood sugar level problem.
Boiled chick peas are one of my favourite snacks, as they are delicious, nutritious, cheap, and easy to make. I’d soak the dried ones (never fancied the pre-cooked tinned type for some reason) the night before, cook them in the pressure cooker with a pinch of sea salt the next morning for 3–5 minutes (letting the valve reach the red level), switch off and let the residual heat finish off the cooking process while I got into my walking gear (which is both ecological and efficient time management), pop them into a plastic box and leave the house with them still warm (no time to let them cool down).
On one such occasion, I found myself seated, on the Tube train, opposite an oldish man (in his late 60s/early 70s??) who had all the visual makings of a tramp: shabby clothes, unkempt appearance and, to top it off, flies undone. I caught a whiff of hydrogen sulphide, and thought, “He’s let off a smelly fart in a public and enclosed area. How disgusting.”
When I got to my destination and disembarked, he remained on the train, to my relief. As I walked along the platform towards the exit, the odour was still discernible and right behind me. To my horror, I realised that it was emanating from my rucksack, the source being the boiled chick peas that I’d packed, still warm, in the plastic container!
(London, 1997)
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