Biscuits

Feeling a sensation that he couldn’t quite associate, Stanley feared the day had finally come.

He thought it never would.

It didn’t seem possible.

But standing there with the biscuit tin in front of him, it seemed that this was the day.

Stanley could not face the thought of eating another biscuit.

Even to look at the biscuits, taunting him in their tin, was turning his stomach.

When he first started working at the biscuit factory, nearly twelve years ago, the old timers told him it would happen.

Indeed, Stanley had eaten one too many biscuits.

It began the night before in the biscuit aisle of his local Morrisons, unexpectedly smarting at a double pack of chocolate bourbons.

And now, the next morning, Stanley couldn’t stand the sight of any biscuits: not cookie, nor custard cream.

But if he could no longer eat biscuits, how would be pay the bills?

And what about family gatherings, when someone was certain to turn up with a shortbread selection tin?

Why me? Stanley thought, heading through to ask the boss if there were any jobs going in the accounting department. Why did this have to happen to me?

Standing outside the biscuit factory a short while later, Stanley put his hand in his coat pocket, shuddering to find something hidden in there.

He knew what it was going to be even before he pulled it from his pocket.

There it was, the plastic wrapped Biscoff he’d been given with his coffee when he got his hair cut last week.

I’ll save it for later, he remembered thinking at the time, completely unaware that there wouldn’t be a later.

This was later.

A seagull on the wall was looking at Stanley, seeming to ask him a question. Or if not asking a question, offering a threat.

vss #58

---

Sign up to receive new posts straight to your inbox