Cheese
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Don’t ever say you like it.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Don’t ever say you like it.
I worked on building sites for a while, but before that I worked in the factory. I lived at home with my parents when I worked in the factory. Dad would wake me up at five in the morning when I was on early shift despite my sleeping in the same room as the phone, the box-room, and ordering a wake-up call from the operator. The phone call was the signal for my old man to come down and give me a nudge, knowing full well I'd sleep right through it.
Mum always made me a packed lunch if I didn't tell her I was working overtime. Working overtime meant a meal chitty for the canteen so a packed lunch wasn't really necessary. If ever I was offered overtime on the spur of the moment I would then eat the packed lunch and save the chitty for a later date.
Coming off nightshift, I was responsible for bringing home fresh baked rolls, a great many of us were. The bus driver would oblige and stop at the cross so we could invade the Wonderloaf Bakery to buy our rolls. The whole family preferred them ‘well-fired’ and there was a plentiful supply to go at. They were very popular.
I well remember the conversation as I made a start on the breakfast after arriving home from a particular nightshift.
“That cheese you put on my rolls was great, mum,” I said.
“Did you enjoy it then?”
“Delicious, yes.”
Every packed lunch for three weeks then had the same cheese for a filling, sometimes cut with an onion and at other times with a tomato or pickle until my dad complained. It seemed he got the same packed lunch as me. He got short shrift for complaining but there was certainly more variety after that.
Building sites are different in that they don't always have a canteen, the eating place usually a rough, draughty hut with table and benches. I was married when I started on the building sites and had the wife trained well enough that she could get me out of bed in the morning, make my lunch while I attended to the dog and ate breakfast, thus preparing me for the day ahead. I showed my appreciation for this by pecking her on the cheek and sending her back to bed. She seldom, if ever, argued.
It had dawned on me some weeks earlier that I had only gone and made the same mistake again, and I well remember the day it finally got to me; the day the cheese hit the fan so to speak. I had been eating the stuff for weeks on end and hadn't made mention of it for the sake of a quiet life. I'd had a bad morning altogether. Some idiot had left the dumper running and it had jumped into gear somehow. It laid waste to a recently built wall before running amok throughout the site and the foreman was on the warpath.
I was ten minutes late in getting to the cabin for lunch and muttered to myself as I slid onto the bench opposite my pal, Joey.
“Problems?” asked Joey for an opener.
“Need to get the brickies back to rebuild that wall,” I explained, pouring some tea from my flask and unwrapping my sandwiches. “Aaaawww, shit. Would you look at that.”
“What?”
“Cheese again. Shit. I tell you what. If it's cheese tomorrow they're going straight in the bin.”
“Same here,” said Joey in disgust. Opening one of his own sandwiches and peering inside. “I'm sick and fed up of cheese too.”
The next day I was in the cabin a couple of minutes before Joey. I had poured my tea and opened my sandwiches just as he sat down.
“I don't believe it,” I yelped, roughly bunching up the package and lobbing it in the bin, “bloody cheese again.”
At that, Joey reached into his haversack, took out his packed lunch and threw it in the bin after mine.
“But, Joey!” I exclaimed. “You didn't even look to see what was in yours.”
“No need,” he replied with that nonchalant, lop-sided grin of his. “I made them up myself.”
Mum always made me a packed lunch if I didn't tell her I was working overtime. Working overtime meant a meal chitty for the canteen so a packed lunch wasn't really necessary. If ever I was offered overtime on the spur of the moment I would then eat the packed lunch and save the chitty for a later date.
Coming off nightshift, I was responsible for bringing home fresh baked rolls, a great many of us were. The bus driver would oblige and stop at the cross so we could invade the Wonderloaf Bakery to buy our rolls. The whole family preferred them ‘well-fired’ and there was a plentiful supply to go at. They were very popular.
I well remember the conversation as I made a start on the breakfast after arriving home from a particular nightshift.
“That cheese you put on my rolls was great, mum,” I said.
“Did you enjoy it then?”
“Delicious, yes.”
Every packed lunch for three weeks then had the same cheese for a filling, sometimes cut with an onion and at other times with a tomato or pickle until my dad complained. It seemed he got the same packed lunch as me. He got short shrift for complaining but there was certainly more variety after that.
Building sites are different in that they don't always have a canteen, the eating place usually a rough, draughty hut with table and benches. I was married when I started on the building sites and had the wife trained well enough that she could get me out of bed in the morning, make my lunch while I attended to the dog and ate breakfast, thus preparing me for the day ahead. I showed my appreciation for this by pecking her on the cheek and sending her back to bed. She seldom, if ever, argued.
It had dawned on me some weeks earlier that I had only gone and made the same mistake again, and I well remember the day it finally got to me; the day the cheese hit the fan so to speak. I had been eating the stuff for weeks on end and hadn't made mention of it for the sake of a quiet life. I'd had a bad morning altogether. Some idiot had left the dumper running and it had jumped into gear somehow. It laid waste to a recently built wall before running amok throughout the site and the foreman was on the warpath.
I was ten minutes late in getting to the cabin for lunch and muttered to myself as I slid onto the bench opposite my pal, Joey.
“Problems?” asked Joey for an opener.
“Need to get the brickies back to rebuild that wall,” I explained, pouring some tea from my flask and unwrapping my sandwiches. “Aaaawww, shit. Would you look at that.”
“What?”
“Cheese again. Shit. I tell you what. If it's cheese tomorrow they're going straight in the bin.”
“Same here,” said Joey in disgust. Opening one of his own sandwiches and peering inside. “I'm sick and fed up of cheese too.”
The next day I was in the cabin a couple of minutes before Joey. I had poured my tea and opened my sandwiches just as he sat down.
“I don't believe it,” I yelped, roughly bunching up the package and lobbing it in the bin, “bloody cheese again.”
At that, Joey reached into his haversack, took out his packed lunch and threw it in the bin after mine.
“But, Joey!” I exclaimed. “You didn't even look to see what was in yours.”
“No need,” he replied with that nonchalant, lop-sided grin of his. “I made them up myself.”
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.