To compensate for an otherwise poor diet, I’ve started breakfasting on Dorset Cereals. I’ve come to realise very quickly that it doesn’t get realer. Or more honest. These guys border on being the genii of the puritan breakfast world.
So with the benchmark well and truly established, let’s begin the process of Authenticating our Muesli.
No. 1 – Is it made in a factory run by beavers in the middle of nowhere?
No. 2 – Is most of the breakfast organisation’s annual turnaround used to pay for animal funeral services?
No. 3 – Is the packaging solid? By this I mean is it made from industrial strength cardboard, bomb proof vacuum plastic, and yet still generated from natural material? A simple test. If your nan’s arthritic hands can open it you’re in trouble.
No. 4 – Does it contain any of the following ingredients: wood shavings? Bear droppings? Hoof of rabbit? Eel’s bladder? or whatever. Natural, essentially.
No. 5 – Does it contain dust? It must contain ‘No Dust’. With the exception of badger dandruff.
Just in case you’re not entirely sure; ask yourself what you picture when you eat it.
If you picture this… stop eating.
If on the other hand, you see this: you’ve chosen wisely and you can finish your morning meal.
Ultimately, unless a lumberjack’s pulled your muesli from the backside of a Canadian elk, it’s not the genuine article, and therefore not worth the hemp it’s printed on.
Make this check list your Breakfast Bible and authenticate your muesli before it’s too late.
Peace and Patchouli
by Phillip Cogger
A man can’t decide which suit to choose, the black or the navy. He’s sure he is a man because the last thing he did was lift weights, and the week before he drank a good deal of beer. It doesn’t help that the shop assistant looks like Eva Mendez. She is so like Mendez that if the real Eva were to enter the suit shop, she may feel she had found her twin. She kneels to take a shirt from a low shelf. He likes the way the plastic packaging crackles in her hands. In a similar way he also enjoys hearing people eat on trains. He now has goose bumps. For his age he is not an unattractive man. A month or two and he may even be back to the waist size of his thirty-fifth year on earth. He selects the navy suit because it is perfect for his son’s christening. But it would be less than perfect for him to go any further with Eva; real or fake.
by Phillip Cogger
I prized the lid off and began slapping paint on the wall, not caring if it spilled on the skirting board. The dog appeared in the doorway and stared at me. I put my brush down, tottered over and patted him on the head and stroked his chin like he was a cat. He offered a paw and I accepted. We began to dance, stepping over tins and brushes, enacting the Twist from the sixties, working a reverse chronology of popular dance: the Foxtrot, Waltz and Tango, the Charleston and the Lindy Hop. I swung my right leg up in a swift hoorah, accidentally kicking him into a paint tray. He yelped up and walked out the room dripping red. Days later he ruined me at chess and we swore to give each other space.