Thursday, 5 June 2008

Meanwhile, on the other side of town…

Today, at work, while I was hunting for an afternoon snack in my bag (mixed nuts – brazils, almonds and cashews, for preference) – I discovered this:

It is incredibly difficult to photograph so allow me to clarify. It is a false nail.

It emphatically does not belong to me. I am not the kind of Jones who suits a false nail, as you can see from this state-of-the-art digital simulation.

So how did it get there?

I believe an extraordinary physical phenomenon has taken place. There has been a female typhoon. I went to see
Sex And The City last night in London's Leicester Square. I can honestly say I have never been in an atmosphere so oppressively humid with womankind. Any man present – and I honestly believe there were none – would have felt their Adam's Apples melting away and breasts swelling under their incredulously exploring hands just from the sheer intensity of female hormones in the room. 

As the film began, to riotous applause, the concentration of oestrogen in the room bubbled higher and higher, the electrons of anticipation become more agitated, and the molecules of excitement collided with ever-increasing frequency. The inevitable consequence? An extremely rare natural phenomenon which simply could not be contained. Several rows in the middle – the epicentre, if you will – combusted in a shower of body parts, accessories and cosmetics.

It was not an aftermath for the faint-hearted. Consider the ushers who had to clear the debris from the deserted cinema – for every half-eaten box of popcorn, a severed string of coloured plastic beads. For every drained cardboard cup of watered-down, cola-flavoured drink, a singed bunch of hair extensions.

I consider myself lucky to have escaped with just a stray fingernail in my bag. I could have been extracting my snacks from a stranger's flipflop, their two biggest toes still clenching the thong with the rigidity of utter hysteria.


Big Brother said...

I once encountered a stray nail in a Benjy's tuna baguette (yes, clearly, I should have know better) - by finding myself biting on something incredibly hard. Unlike your experience, it was a nail of the metallic, hammering into wood, variety (if I had to be specific, I would say a 12mm galvanised roofing tack - so at least it wasn't rusty). Looking back I console myself that the pain was offset by the knowledge that it was not(presumably) once attached to somebody's foot.

It may not surprise that on returning to the shop with the offending item I was met with supreme indifference. And when proferring me a refund, I swear they were about to suggest keeping 50p back to reflect that I had already consumed a third.

Big Brother said...

Sorry - two comments in the space of ten minutes probably breaks some protocol, but this has brought to mind another disturbing experience.

A number of years ago sitting around the meeting table in the office of somebody really quite senior, and spotting a nail on the carpet, then another, then another. These were not of the metallic, joining bits of wood variety, but of the quite large and probably once attached to the toes of a man the wrong side of middle age variety. I was lost for the rest of the meeting in a fevered consideration of how these had come to be on the carpet, with the reluctant but inevitable conclusion that our director really did cut his toe nails in the office.

It's enough to put you off your Benjy's tuna baguette...

Miss Jones said...

the more comments, the merrier, is what i say.

when i was on radio norfolk sixth form challenge (oh, glory days) we were in the second heat. when i went up to take my place at the table, just in front of my buzzer were all the bitten-off fingernails of the previous contestant who'd sat there. mmmmm.

Stuart said...

I found a nail – a nail from a finger, a fingernail – in a sausage roll once. The sausage roll was nice and was probably purchased from Jenkins or Sweetmans, the two pillars of Llanelli's baking community.